


Albatross

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3394598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bethany starts a new life—by some definition of the word, anyway—with the Wardens. It turns out to be rather more fulfilling than she expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for a kink meme prompt that got away from me: Alistair/Bethany. Maybe they're both Wardens and bond together, maybe Alistair is king and Bethany is one of the mages who wants to live Ferelden, maybe...
> 
> Short version: Alistair and Bethany meet, like each other and, at some point, fuck.
> 
> +If they fall in love  
> +If Alistair isn't the shy, virginal templar we knew.

After the fifth group of darkspawn in as many hours, one of Stroud's companions said, "The girl is cursed."

 _Hang your superstitions_ , Bethany wanted to tell him. The poison in her veins made her short-tempered, but gave her little ability to act on her anger. It gave her little ability to do anything, in fact; she could not reach her magic at all. She was useless against every darkspawn they encountered, shoved out of the way so that Stroud and his guards could defend against them.

And they had encountered a  _lot_  of darkspawn. More than the usual amount, if the Warden was to be believed.

"We ought to leave her," the man said. It had been a full day since they had taken her from her sister, and she had not seen more of his face than his eyes. "Her sister will never know the difference."

"If she has survived this long, she might survive the Joining," Stroud replied. He knelt in front of her, offering her a skin of water. She took it with trembling hands and drank. "We need bodies. You must walk, now," he directed at her. "You are running out of time."

She knew that. She could feel the life draining out of her, being replaced by something else—not death, not exactly, but something fouler by far.

When they finally reached the surface, the sunlight blinded her. She could no longer do more than shuffle her feet while Stroud and the other Wardens took turns half-carrying her toward their keep. Passerby gave them a wide berth, and the few that called out to them spoke in a foreign tongue. Stroud answered them in the same language. She understood none of it.

In the throne room of Jader's Keep, the seneschal held her upright while Stroud lifted a cup to her lips. "Drink," he told her, "and pray."

* * *

Being a Warden was not so terrible, she supposed. She was allowed to live—an apostate no more—in full sight of the world. The vast majority of her fellow Wardens had worked with mages for years, and had progressive opinions of magic. They treated her with no more suspicion than anyone else, for the most part, which was something of a relief.

But being a Warden was a burden, too. Some of the others told her that she would one day adjust to sensing the darkspawn, but she didn't believe them. The feel of them kept her awake at night; whether or not she was in the Deep Roads, she could sense them. At a distance, perhaps, but they prickled at the corners of her mind, demanding a tithe of fear for every pace they advanced.

She returned to the Deep Roads one month after her Joining with her new unit, her palms clammy on her new staff. It did not have the same warmth and familiarity as the birch staff she'd brought from Ferelden, but it was stronger.

Not an hour after they entered, a group of darkspawn attacked their flank from a previously-cleared passage. Bethany stayed well back, protected by the other Wardens, and rained fire down on the front line of the beasts. Her new leather and mail creaked with every motion, despite the hours she'd spent sparring in the practice yard.

When the last darkspawn lay dead, one of the others called out, "We cleared that tunnel two weeks ago."

"And we will undoubtedly clear it again," Stroud replied, already turning.

Bethany swallowed down the nausea twisting her stomach and trotted after her unit. Her fellow mage, an elf named Tári, jogged at her elbow. She'd never attempted to speak to Bethany before, but now she abruptly broke the silence.

"What are you, twenty?" she asked.

"Nineteen," Bethany answered, confused. "Why?"

"You're a strong elemental. That was some  _nice_  fire."

Hesitantly, Bethany smiled. "Thank you."

"And Stroud said you could heal, too."

"I'm no spirit healer, but yes. A little."

Tári snorted. "You won't be with us long, then. They've a shortage of mages in Ferelden, after that nonsense at the Circle Tower. I bet they'll ask for a transfer."

Bethany was about to ask how often she could expect to be shuffled around, like so much property, when a two-tone whistle sounded from the front. She'd been distracted by the conversation, but now she sensed the darkspawn closing on their position.

Tári taught her a bit of primal magic during that first week in the Deep Roads—how to gather lightning in her hands, how to strike a darkspawn with a bolt that stunned. Their fellow Wardens gathered, curious, to watch her practice, cheered when she fried a genlock in battle. There was no shortage of the beasts. Her fellows claimed it was the busiest they'd seen the Deep Roads since the Blight.

Stroud glanced her way, but she avoided his eyes. She was not cursed, she told herself, no matter what superstitious men believed.


	2. Chapter 2

She stayed with the Wardens of Jader for six months, and then Stroud called her to his office.

"The Warden-Commander of Ferelden has requested a mage."

Bethany, knuckles hidden by her gloves, pressed her hands together in her lap. Stroud looked over the letter at her.

"I am hesitant to part with your skill," he continued, laying the letter down. "But we are still attempting to bolster our forces in Ferelden. I would ask that you return to your home country, if you are willing."

Not trusting herself to speak—not quite yet—she nodded.

He sighed, a heavy, drawn-out thing that ruffled his mustache. "Say something, girl. We will not force you to go if you'd rather not."

"Is this because of what the others say?" she blurted.

He frowned. "What do they say?"

She resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. She was not a little sister anymore, she reminded herself. She was a soldier, and he outranked her.

"Some say that I'm cursed," she said.  _Like you didn't know._  One of her fellow Wardens, who had been a sailor in his last life, had gone so far as to call her  _albatross_ , which could not possibly mean anything good. She'd gone through the library until she'd found an image of the bird, which seemed like nothing more than an oversized gull, really.

Stroud's expression hadn't changed. It rarely did; he had variations on the same frown, the same sigh, and that was all. "And what are the terms of this curse?"

"That I attract darkspawn," she said, struggling to keep her voice even.

"We are Grey Wardens," he dismissed. "That is a  _blessing_ , Hawke."

She still had to stifle the impulse to glance over her shoulder when he addressed her by her surname; she half-expected Marian to be standing behind her, covered in fresh blood, the smirk still on her face.  _I'll be taking my little sister home now, Ser Warden_ , she'd say, resting a hand on Bethany's shoulder.  _Thanks for saving her life._

But Marian was never there, and the weight of the name  _Hawke_  hung round her neck, the last connection to her last life.

"I can assure you," Stroud was saying, "nothing my Ensigns could say or do would convince me to transfer you or anyone, curse or no. Will you go to Ferelden, or will stay here?"

She hesitated. Since Kirkwall, Jader's Keep had at least been a waystation, of a sort—a place that had become familiar, if not comfortable.

"The Warden-Commander will be here within the week," he said. "Think on it, and have your decision ready by then."

She nodded. For a moment longer, he kept her there, dark eyes considering. "Dismissed," he said at last, looking back to his paperwork.

She rose and made for the door, but before she reached the corridor, he called after her.

"You haven't sailed often, have you?"

She turned back. He hadn't looked up from his desk.

"No," she answered, confused. "Only once, from Gwaren."

"Your new nickname may not mean what you believe." On that note, he shooed her toward the door, and she went, her anger diluted by this cryptic message.

She  _had_  heard the word  _curse_ , hadn't she? Edwin had said as much, the  _wretch_ , when he and Stroud first dragged her out of the Deep. Perhaps Wardens had a funny way of expressing blessings. It was true that her fellows didn't treat her poorly, no matter the rumors, but perhaps they complained of her affliction when she was not present.

It wasn't an affliction. It wasn't  _anything_. She thought of writing to Isabela—the pirate would know the significance of an albatross—but decided against it. She did not  _want_  to know, and besides, she had not yet written to Marian. Marian had written to  _her_ , missives that remained unanswered. She would think the worst by now, and a hurt, vindictive place in Bethany's heart whispered,  _Good_.

Her thoughts turned back to Stroud's offer. Ferelden. It had been home, of a sort, once—but that was when her father and brother lived. It had never been the place, precisely, more the people, for they had never stayed in one place too long, especially when Bethany was young. Always fleeing the templars. Even so, she missed her apostate life—the fields of Lothering, the quiet existence they'd found there. The stability offered by the Wardens came at too high a price.

She knew of the Vigil; they were still rebuilding after the seige the year before. The idea of serving the Warden-Commander of Ferelden—the hero of the Fifth Blight—daunted her, but...Jader was not a home. Her room was more like a cell, a small chest held everything she owned, and she had hardly become more proficient at Orlesian, which alienated her from half of her fellows.

The sound of hounds, the stench of mud—that would be nice, she decided. She would think it over, but in truth, she had already decided.

* * *

Half of her unit was down, but the rest would hold.

The ogre was the surprise. They ran into plenty of darkspawn, but their bigger kin were rare. She slammed her staff into the ground, delivering another shock of electricity to the thing's head. It roared, searching for the source of the pain, but there were still other Wardens between it and her. She clenched her fist, and frost unfurled over the ogre's skin, restraining its movements. She had it; one more good strike—

A bellow sounded behind her, and then someone in heavy armor rushed past, blocking her line of sight on the beast.

She didn't recognize him; he certainly wasn't a member of her unit. They knew better than to get in her way. She raised a hand to her temple and _pushed_ , and the warrior flew sideways with the force of her Mind Blast, hitting the ground well out of the way.

"Good," she muttered. The ogre turned its rheumy eyes on her, snarling, but she was already preparing to finish it off. Fire bloomed in her hands, along her staff, and with one last great effort, she unleashed it at the beast's chest.

Desperately, it tried to brush the flames off. The stench of burning darkspawn turned her stomach, but she watched until it fell, the flesh melting from its bones.

"Who needs healing?" she called into the sudden quiet, and half a dozen groans answered her.

"I might," the stranger said, clanking to his feet. "That was quite a push."

She narrowed her eyes while he pulled his helm off. "You should not have gotten in my way, serah," she snapped.

He chuckled, running a hand over his blond hair. "Forgive me. I thought you could use the help, but I was mistaken."

His easy acquiescence startled her; out of conversation to give him, she turned her back and went to Tári first. Her fellow mage clutched a hand around the bolt buried in her shoulder. "It isn't deep," she said through gritted teeth. "Just pull it out."

"Not a chance," Bethany told her. "Wait until we're back at the Keep. You'll do more damage that way."

"She's right." The warrior had joined them.

Bethany turned. She recognized, finally, that the stranger wore Grey Warden armor, but he was conspicuously without an Orlesian accent. Stroud was at his shoulder, wearing his characteristic frown.

She folded her arms over her chest, ignoring Stroud's warning look. "What brings you to our Deep Roads?"

He smiled, a peculiar warmth in his light brown eyes. "Are we staking claims, now? Stroud, you should have told me. I wouldn't have intruded."

At her feet, Tári groaned. "Beth, that's the bloody Warden-Commander of Ferelden you're sassing."

The words took a moment to sink in, but when they did, Bethany felt her face burn with mortification. "Forgive me," she said, ducking her head.  _Maker, he'll never take me now._  "I confess, I expected a woman."  _And someone rather older!_

"The Hero of Ferelden has been Called elsewhere," he said. His voice was carefully neutral. "I am...new...to the post. My name is Alistair. I did not quite catch yours."

"This is Ensign Bethany Hawke," Stroud supplied for her. Hidden by her hair, she cringed; he hadn’t been eager to send her on her way before, but he sounded weary of her now.

"Ah," Alistair said. "The Albatross."

The nickname provoked her into looking up—and how had  _he_  heard about that, anyway?—but there was nothing but an odd sort of humor on his face.

"Well, we have much to discuss," he continued, "but we shouldn't do it here." He knelt down, draped Tári's uninjured arm around his shoulders, and heaved her upward. Once there, she stood on her own, keeping a hand tight to her bloody mail. "Let's get your unit back to the Keep, and then we'll talk, you and I."

"Yes, Commander," she agreed, inclining her head. She hoped he didn't hear the reluctance in her voice.

When she looked up, he had moved off to pick up one of the half-dozen Wardens on the ground. Stroud leveled his deepest frown at her before he moved away to help a few Wardens up himself.

"A wonderful start with your new Commander," Tári muttered, joking even through the obvious pain in her voice.

"Maker," Bethany sighed.


	3. Chapter 3

After a few hours—of walking, and then of healing, and then of bandaging wounds that she could not heal—Alistair appeared at her elbow.

"Come with me," he said. He'd removed his breastplate and gauntlets, leaving him in dusty blue-and-silver chain mail; clearly, he'd been on the road a while.

She exchanged a look with Tári, who looked better for having the bolt out of her shoulder, and followed Alistair out of the infirmary. Dread pooled in her gut. She wanted to return to Ferelden, but she wondered if she would be allowed, now. Stroud had obviously been frustrated by her earlier blunder; was Alistair as irritated?

Alistair pushed open the door to the guest quarters and stood aside to let her pass. "I must say, I miss the Vigil," he sighed, following her in. "It's a little...roomier." He shut the door behind him.

She said nothing, unsure how he expected her to respond to that.

"That was impressive work in the Deep Roads," he continued, moving to the bare desk. He gestured for her to have a seat; she perched at the very edge of her chair. "Not every day you see a mage face down an ogre without backup. And you've only been a Warden for six months, Stroud said?"

She swallowed. "Commander, I'm—"

He waved her off; the apology died in her throat. "It's not the first time I've barged in unwanted." He smiled. He had a nice smile, she thought—very earnest. She liked it better, now that the air had cleared between them. "You should know—we don't stand on ceremony much, at the Vigil. Commander this, Commander that—I get tired of it. I see the necessity, believe me, but when outside ears aren't listening, I'm just Alistair."

She tried to smile. She wasn't sure she quite managed it. "You must not like Jader very much, then."

He chuckled. "I like Jader fine, but I'm eager to get home. You sound Fereldan, yourself."

She hesitated, twisting her hands in her lap. "I am."

He tilted his head to the side, brow furrowing. "Interesting. Did you join before that mess at the Circle Tower, then? I'd think I'd recognize you, otherwise."

She ducked her head. "I was not trained at the Circle Tower."

When he spoke next, there was a knowing tone to his voice. "Ah. You were an apostate."

She nodded, not looking up.

"Well, despite that—or because of it, perhaps? Your skill is impressive. Who trained you?"

"My father," she told her lap. "He was...an apostate...as well."

"No need to sound so worried." She glanced up, and indeed, he looked no more concerned than he had two minutes prior. "I've known my fair share of apostates, and one of them wouldn't have gently pushed me out of the way, she'd have turned me into a toad and laughed."

At this, Bethany really did smile.

"So," Alistair continued, leaning back in his chair, "Stroud has been incredibly closed-mouthed on the subject, but I'm led to believe it's your decision, about transferring to Ferelden."

She nodded.

"I won't lie to you—the Vigil is nothing like this stronghold. We're still recovering from last year's siege, for one, and for another, there are an awful lot of darkspawn in our Deep Roads still."

"There are plenty of darkspawn here," she pointed out. "Highest activity since the Blight, the others say."

"Hmm. Yes." He seemed on the verge of saying something else, but shook his head instead. "At any rate, it's a lot of backbreaking work at the Vigil, and not all of it includes killing darkspawn. If that's the sort of thing you'd like, then you're welcome to come along."

"I would," she said, before she could change her mind.

"Good. We're painfully undermanned." He sighed. "We'll set off tomorrow, then. Meet me in the yard at dawn, and we'll be on our way. You ought to say your goodbyes tonight."

She nodded again. She had few friends here, though she and her fellow Wardens got along well enough. She would visit Tári, she supposed, and thank Stroud.

For a moment, he considered her with a peculiar look on his face. She feared, briefly, that he would change his mind—that he would leave her here—but he gestured to the door. "Dismissed," he said.

She left before he could take it back.

* * *

At dawn, Alistair stood alone in the yard beside two horses.

Bethany greeted the mare before swinging her saddlebags onto the horse's back. She whickered softly, watching Bethany with interest. "You came alone?" Bethany asked, wondering at the wisdom of that.

Alistair shrugged. "I left my companions at the border. It isn't far—a day's ride, maybe two. You'd be surprised at the berth bandits give Grey Wardens. Are you ready?"

Bethany spared a last glance for the tower behind her. "Ready."

Alistair lifted himself into the saddle, armor clanking; Bethany followed suit, squirming to get comfortable. She had only ridden a little since her Joining, but at least the mare was gentle beneath her.

The morning passed in silence. Bethany got the distinct impression that Alistair was not fond of mornings; his jaw creaked when he yawned, and he yawned  _often_  until midday. She did not, however, get the impression that he was not paying attention. His eyes scanned the road in front of them with regularity, attentive to possible threats. They passed a merchant or two, but no more.

"So," he said at last, when the sun shrank their shadows beneath them, "if you're Fereldan, what were you doing in the Free Marches?"

She glanced sideways at him. "That's hardly fair."

"What isn't?"

"You already know a great deal about me. I've heard very little about you."

He chuckled. "True enough. You were expecting the Hero of Ferelden, I suppose."

"I was."

"Well, have you heard much about the Fifth Blight?"

"Only a little. I was...rather busy, once it had ended, and far from Ferelden."

"Well, she didn't kill the archdemon by herself, you know. I traveled with her that year. There were several of us, but she and I were the only Grey Wardens."

Bethany raised an eyebrow. "So two Grey Wardens killed the archdemon. Quite a difference."

He shook his head. "Oh, very nice. I see how it is."

Ducking her head to hide her smile, she went on, "And before you were a Warden?"

He cleared his throat; when she peeked at his face, he looked moderately uncomfortable. "I was training to become a templar, actually," he said, his tone forcibly light. "I never took my vows. I was conscripted before then."

"Hmm," she said. Her mare snorted, and she loosened her hold on the reins, forcing herself to relax. "You're not much like other templars I've met."

He raised his eyebrows. "I thought apostates avoided templars, as a rule."

"There are a lot of templars in Kirkwall," she replied. "You cannot hope to avoid them all."

He let out a low whistle. "That's not a good place for apostates. What in Andraste's name were you doing  _there_?"

She shrugged. "My family lived in Lothering. We fled the Blight, took ship from Gwaren." She swallowed around the lump in her throat; it had been nearly two years, but thinking of Carver still burned. "My mother's family was from Kirkwall. We hoped to take refuge with them, but...I suppose refuge is a strong word for what we found there."

"And the Deep Roads? Stroud said he found you there."

"My sister's idea. We signed onto an expedition, hoped to find treasure in the thaigs. We did, but the taint got me on our way out. I would've died if Stroud had not found us."

"Or worse," Alistair muttered. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. It is not an easy life to be forced into."

She sighed. "It could be worse. I suppose it's better than the Gallows."

He raised his hand, signaling her to halt. They were approaching a copse of trees, and his eyes searched the shadows.

"Blast it," he muttered. "I shouldn't have left Nathaniel at the border. He'll be thrilled to say  _I told you so_."

Before she could ask what he meant, bandits stepped from behind the trees. They were moderately equipped, and there were a dozen of them.

"Move on, lads." It was not a tone she'd heard Alistair use yet—not a trace of humor, not a hint of cheer. "We have nothing that would interest you."

A few strung their bows. The leader stepped forward, his smile grim.

"You have plenty," he said, signaling his men to attack.

Alistair drew his sword and shield, swinging down from his saddle. Bethany didn't bother; she pulled her staff free, already gathering fire in her hands. Before the archers could loose, she dropped fireballs on the ranks. To her credit, her mare did nothing more than snort nervously at the crackle of flames.

Alistair cut down the leader while the archers burned. Bethany watched the field, looking for an opening, and noticed the mage near the back who'd avoided the fireballs.

"Commander!" she shouted. "Mage!"

Alistair touched two fingers to his temple, and just in time; the frost building on the mage's staff melted, and he reeled back, stunned. Bethany finished him off, frying him with a bolt of lightning.

They dispatched the remaining bandits quickly, Alistair's sword and shield cutting through them one by one while Bethany kept the rest distracted with her magic. By the time Alistair swung back into his saddle, he was spattered with blood and grinning.

"I can hardly believe Stroud let you go," he laughed. "That was quite a show. I think we work well together."

A weight she hadn't quite realized she was carrying lifted as she shouldered her staff and returned his smile. "They weren't darkspawn," she pointed out.

"No," he agreed. "Darkspawn are much stupider. I can only imagine how fun the Deep Roads will be, bringing you along."

The sun was fierce at midday. That explained the blush, she told herself, following him into the trees. It certainly wasn't his praise that made her feel so warm.


	4. Chapter 4

They made camp that night and saw the Ferelden border by the next midday. The soldiers let them pass without so much as an inquiry. At Bethany's surprised look, Alistair muttered, "The Grey Wardens get a lot of free reign here these days, as long as we mind our own business."

Indeed, the soldiers looked at their armor with near-reverence. Bethany could feel their stares a long way down the Imperial Highway.

"We'll collect my companions and head to Amaranthine," Alistair said when the soldiers were at last out of sight behind them. "I told them to meet us at the Huntsman's Lodge, just outside Ghelen's Pass. They've probably fretted themselves to death by now."

"Do you have a reputation for being unable to look after yourself?" Bethany asked, with as straight a face as she could muster.

Alistair wrinkled his nose. "Some certainly think so. I'm still alive, though, aren't I? More or less intact."

"It seems that way."

He rolled his eyes. "Your skepticism wounds me."

He was the strangest Grey Warden she'd ever met, she thought. Perhaps it had something to do with his rank, but usually the higher-ups were quite a bit more  _serious_. She had seen flashes of his command capability, but for the most part, he was like this: joking, gregarious. She wondered if it was a ruse that would fall apart as soon as they reached the Vigil, and hoped with an odd fervor that it wasn't. He was the most pleasant person she'd met in some time. It would be a shame, she thought, to give that up.

They made the bottom of the pass just before sundown and left their horses tethered outside the tavern. Inside, the light was low; a minstrel sang beside the fire, civilians chattered at one another over their rickety tables, and there, in the furthest corner, Bethany saw the familiar glint of blue and silver armor. The talk quieted as the door swung closed behind them. The barkeep bustled forward, wiping her hands on her apron.

"What can I get you, Warden-Commander?" she asked, just a little breathless.

"Whatever's best, dear lady," Alistair said with a smile. "We'll join our friends at their table."

She nodded and bustled off for the kitchen; slowly, talk in the tavern resumed, though more than a few stares lingered on the pair of them. Bethany and Alistair made their way around the tables toward the two seated in the corner.

One was a dwarf, her dark hair pulled into pigtails, most of her face covered in tattoos, but she wore a welcoming smile. The other seemed more serious by far, with a face dominated by his significant nose and his arms crossed over his chest.

"You have been successful, I see," the man said, his eyes narrowed with scrutiny as they passed over Bethany.

" _Successful_  might be an understatement," Alistair said, pulling out one of the free chairs for Bethany. She sat, pulling her gloves from her hands. "Bethany Hawke, this is Nathaniel Howe." Nathaniel offered his hand across the table, and she shook. "And Sigrun," Alistair continued, and the dwarf reached out to clasp her hand. "I think we will be the better for Bethany's skills."

The minstrel by the fire finished her song, giving Bethany an excuse to turn and clap, hiding the blush creeping up her neck.

"They ought to have sent more than one," Nathaniel said, his frown still in place.

"I only asked for one," Alistair replied.

"You ought to have  _asked_  for more than one," Nathaniel replied, reaching for his mug.

Sigrun elbowed him in the side. "Cheer up," she said. "The Vigil will be fine."

"Be patient, my friend," Alistair added. The barkeep dropped two more mugs on their table; Alistair pushed one over to Bethany.

"You weren't exaggerating," she said, glancing at him. "You truly  _don't_ stand on ceremony."

Nathaniel, to her surprise, barked a laugh. "He warned you, did he?"

"There are too few of us at the Vigil to pay close attention to rank," Sigrun said. "A dozen, now."

"We ought to petition the First Warden," Nathaniel pressed, leaning forward. "The Anderfels do not need so many bodies."

"And neither, they will argue, do we." Alistair took a deep drink from his mug. "I would rather not get drawn into Weisshaupt's...politics. We will continue to recruit from Ferelden when we can, and hope that the next Blight will take a little while."

Nathaniel did not seem appeased, but he dropped the subject nonetheless. The barkeep returned with their bowls—crusty bread, a thick stew hearty with potatoes and vegetables—and scurried off again. For a moment, they ate in silence. Bethany was glad for the hot meal; eating nothing but bread and dried meat while they traveled left her stomach aching.

"What sort of mage are you?" Nathaniel asked at last, looking up at Bethany.

Automatically, she glanced around, anxious that someone had heard. Alistair touched her shoulder. "No one here is about to drag you off to the Circle," he said, his voice low. "But if you'd rather not talk about it—"

Bethany shook her head, already feeling foolish for her nerves. "Sorry. I haven't been...in public, I suppose—since my Joining. Just at the Keep in Jader. I'm an elemental," she directed at Nathaniel. "Fire, ice. I've studied some primal magic, but I don't have the aptitude for anything other than the electricity spells."

"Tári said that you might have the skills for force magic or spirit healing," Alistair added. 

"Our other mage is not...proficient...in those areas," Nathaniel commented, "and our last spirit healer fled not long after our previous Warden-Commander did. I do not know how you would learn those specialties, if you don't know them already."

"I learned a lot of what I know on my own, from books," Bethany offered. "But apostates do not get their hands on those kinds of books often."

"I'm sure we could arrange something," Alistair agreed.

Talk turned from business as the meal went on; Bethany learned that Sigrun had been a member of the Legion of the Dead, that Alistair's predecessor had spared Nathaniel the hangman's noose. Previous lives were moot with Grey Wardens. They spoke of their pasts as though they had happened to other people. Bethany wondered if she would ever be as successful.

When the minstrel had ceased for the night, Alistair stretched, arching back in his chair. "Well, Wardens, enjoy the soft beds that await you upstairs," he said through a yawn. "We'll be camping until we're back at the Vigil."

Neither Nathaniel nor Sigrun looked particularly surprised by this, nor did they seem set against it. They left their dishes and made for the stairs. Bethany found her saddlebags in Sigrun's room.

"Pleasant dreams," Alistair called after them, following Nathaniel into the room next door.

"Not sodding likely," Sigrun muttered, but she said it with a grin.

There was a smaller mattress pulled out from beneath the larger one, the sheets already in a state of disarray. "I prefer being closer to the floor, if you don't mind," Sigrun said, toeing off her boots. "You can take that monstrosity."

Bethany chuckled. "If you insist."

* * *

Bethany had always dreamed often enough. It was a particular curse of mages to visit the Fade, both willingly and unwillingly. She surveyed the countryside around her, already exhausted. Dreaming had become worse since the Joining; she saw shadows everywhere and woke with them beneath her eyes.

This was no different. The false sun was bright in her face; she squinted into it, shading her eyes with one gloved hand. A dark spot darted over the light, drawing her attention. It was a bird with a massive wingspan, its body sleek and white, its wings nearly black. She smiled at the sight of it, though she wasn't sure why. The land around her was stricken with Blight, a windmill on her flank burned, but the albatross glided toward her, crying a sweet, sad song.

And then, just as suddenly, an arrow bloomed in its chest. Blood spread through its pearly feathers. Horrified, she watched as it fell.

When she searched the horizon for the one who'd killed it, she saw her sister.

"I should have known when we were children." The thing spoke with Marian's voice and wore Marian's face. "Catastrophe follows you wherever you go."

Bethany gasped and woke. The moon shone through their window, illuminating the room with weak white light.

"Bethany?" Sigrun's voice was only a little way to her right. "Is everything all right?"

Bethany pulled her legs to her chest, pressing her face to her knees, and closed her eyes tight against the prickle of tears.

"Oh, you poor thing." Sigrun climbed up on the bed and wrapped an arm around Bethany's shoulders. "Your Joining wasn't long ago, was it? The dreams are awful, at first. But they get better."

Bethany did not have the heart to contradict her. She let herself be comforted, cried herself out, and hoped, just before she slipped off to sleep again, that the rumors in Jader had gone no further than Alistair's ears. She could imagine that arrow in her chest with far too much clarity.


	5. Chapter 5

"And this one's yours. Hopefully you'll find it comfortable enough. I wouldn't get excited about the bath, though, unless you like  _cold_  baths, because honestly, we don't have the manpower to cart hot water around." 

Alistair rubbed the back of his neck while Bethany stepped into the room, saddlebags draped over her shoulder, and stared. It was three times as big as her room at Jader, with a proper bed rather than a narrow cot. Her muscles ached at the sight; she hadn't slept on a real bed since Lothering. She had a  _window_ , for Andraste's sake.

"Thank you," she said, carefully laying her saddlebags over the bench at the foot of her bed.  _Her_  bed. It boggled the mind. "This looks...comfortable. I'm afraid you might have difficulty rousing me for excursions."

Behind her, he chuckled. "You underestimate my voice. I can be quite loud." She turned, tearing her gaze from the stone tub—if she tried hard enough, she could heat the water with magic—to find him watching her. "If you need anything, I'm just upstairs—third floor—and my door is almost always open."

She inclined her head. "Thank you, Commander."

He sighed. "It will take some time to break you of that habit, I see. Well, in any case, you're welcome. I'll let you get settled."

When he'd gone, she sat down in the chair at the desk, smoothing her palms over the worn wood. None of this was  _truly_  hers, of course—a loan, really, until she was transferred again—but the illusion was nice. It was an improvement over the last couple of years, certainly.

She was dusty from their long journey, but suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep. She closed the door and started the arduous process of removing her armor; her boots and gloves were easy enough, but her mail required some wiggling to get out of. She changed her sweat-soaked undershirt for a fresh one, propped her staff beside her bed, and blew out her lamp.

For once, sleep came easy.

* * *

She woke starving.

That was not unusual, these days. She was always hungry. The newest Wardens always were, her fellows had told her, hiding their smiles while she desperately chewed through half the platters on the table.

It was inconvenient, though, when she didn't know where the larder was, and the sun was not even over the horizon yet. She could see a dull pre-dawn gloom, but she would have to brave it. Her stomach was a demanding thing.

She tucked her undershirt into her trousers, yawning, and pulled on her socks and boots. It would have to do. Quietly, she left her room and made for the stairs, her leather soles soft on the stone floor.

She met no one. She recognized the throne room from the previous evening and made a tentative left, following her nose. Surely nothing was  _cooking_ , yet, but that certainly  _smelled_  like food—

But when she pushed open a slightly-cracked door, she found that someone  _was_  cooking, and more someones were already eating, and they all looked up when she entered.

Nathaniel hovered over the fire, skewer in hand, the hair all mashed on one side of his head, half-ponytail precariously lopsided. Sigrun sat at one of the tables, eyes alert and fixed on whatever Nathaniel was cooking, her shirt half-untucked. There was another woman with them, too, a blond elf Bethany had not yet met, and she was already eating as quickly as she could, swallowing down bite after bite of sausage, punctuated by deep gulps of tea.

Behind her, someone yawned. Before she could wake enough to be startled, she was thrust forward into the room, propelled by the force of a body knocking carelessly into hers. A hand caught her shoulder and restored her balance, saving her from falling face-first to the stone floor.

"So sorry," Alistair said around another yawn, patting her shoulder. "It's dangerous to linger in doorways at the Vigil, you know. Never know when someone's going to try to walk through you in search of food."

Bethany, heart still racing from the brief loss of her balance, looked up to find all the Wardens looking at her. The elf had even stopped eating.

"Ah," she said, her voice still hoarse from sleep. "This is the new mage, is it?"

Alistair gave her a push—rather gentler than the last—and she moved forward into the room with him on her heels. "Bethany, this is Velanna," he said. 

Velanna did not offer her hand. "Young, isn't she?"

"A little," Bethany said, trying a smile.

Velanna's eyes narrowed. She brandished her fork. "I expect to see you in the practice yard this morning," she declared. "I don't care what some other mage said—I'll assess your abilities for myself." She picked up her plate and tea and left before Bethany could respond.

"Don't worry," Sigrun said when she'd gone, a touch sympathetically. "She's like that with everyone. At least she didn't call you a _shem_."

"She  _still_  calls me a shem," Nathaniel agreed, removing the poker from the fire at last. Bethany's mouth watered. Alistair passed her a plate and they both sat while Nathaniel divided up the sausages.

Sigrun smirked. "That's because she  _likes_  you."

Nathaniel grunted. "I don't think she likes anything."

Sigrun shrugged, still smiling, and dug into her food. Bethany, too distracted by the food to join the conversation, shoved half a sausage in her mouth to avoid speaking.

With the food ready, though, the other Wardens fell silent, too. While the sun rose, they ate in easy quiet, chewing and swallowing with no interruptions.

"Well," Alistair said at last, pushing his plate away, "Bethany, as Velanna mentioned, you'll be sparring with her today. You have some talents in common, but more importantly, she knows some of the magic that you might have an aptitude for. If you're lucky, she'll be able to teach you without eviscerating you."

"She's no force mage," Sigrun pointed out. "Not a spirit healer, either."

"She was a Keeper, or she was supposed to be," Nathaniel replied. "She knows a bit of everything, even if she isn't good at it."

Alistair chuckled. "Don't let  _her_  hear you say that. And don't let her boss you around too much," he directed at Bethany. "She can be a bit intimidating."

Nathaniel snorted into his tea.

* * *

Bethany armed herself in Warden blue and took her staff with her to the practice yard, where she found a very different Velanna: crisp, her blond hair tied back in a bun, her own armor meticulous.

"Fight naturally," she ordered. "I'm sure I can handle anything you throw at me."

She began without warning, calling roots out of the ground to wrap around Bethany's ankle. Bethany severed it with the blade of her staff and threw a fireball. Velanna called up a barrier and dropped it as soon as the fire was out.

Fighting another mage, one-on-one, was different than fighting one from behind a wall of other Wardens. Velanna forced her to move, and to move often. Velanna would not stop needling her for one instant.

Bethany cast a wave of ice, hoping that it would give her the opportunity to catch her breath, but Velanna shattered it with one well-placed stone fist. The flying debris struck Bethany; she went to her knees, gasping for breath.

"I can't," she told the ground, remembering what Alistair had said. "I need a break."

"You can't have one." Despite the iron in Velanna's words, they were not cruel. "Get up, shem."

Her muscles felt watery, but Bethany pushed to her feet. As soon as she was upright, Velanna hit her with a bolt of lightning, straight to the chest. Her armor took most of it, but she reeled back, stunned by the blow, and nearly went to her knees again.

"If you're going to let me walk all over you, they were wrong." She sounded curt now, dismissive. "I can't believe you survived the _Joining_ , if this is all it takes for you to lose your breath."

Bethany sucked in a gasp of air and threw the lightning back at Velanna; she scarcely flinched when it touched her. She raised a fist and Bethany  _knew_ , in a moment of terrible dread, what she was about to do, could see it in the crumbling dirt and moss growing in Velanna's hands—

The spell came at her, intending to petrify, and Bethany, powerless to stop it, threw what was left of her magic outward with all her strength.

When she looked up, she was on her knees on the ground again—but Velanna was down too, on her arse in the dirt, and  _smiling_.

"Not bad, shem," she said, staggering to her feet. She brushed the dirt from her mail and came forward with her hand outstretched. After only a second's hesitation, Bethany accepted the help up. "I have some books for you after all."

It was peculiar, the pride she took in those words, and from a woman she'd been so furious at not one minute prior—stranger still the grin that bloomed on her face when she turned to see Alistair clapping for her from the curtain wall, his smile bright even from a distance.


	6. Chapter 6

Bethany had never worked so hard in her life, but she'd also never enjoyed it quite so much, either.

If she was to be a force mage, she needed to do it quickly. There was work she could help with at the Vigil, the kind that had nothing to do with killing darkspawn and everything to do with lifting rock to repair the walls damaged in the siege. It would help with killing darkspawn too, of course, but she thought she'd like to stand in the sunshine and move granite with her mind. That sounded like something of a vacation, really.

She studied in the library, demonstrated for Velanna, studied in the library some more. More often than not, she fell asleep there only to be woken by Sigrun a few hours later. Sometimes, though, Alistair was the one who found her.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said, gently shaking her shoulder to rouse her, "but doesn't this take longer than a handful of weeks to master? You're going to kill yourself."

She reached into the well of her magic, glanced at Alistair's feet, and lifted. His hand fell away from her shoulder as he tried to regain his balance, only to find that there was no way to do so with both feet six inches off the ground.

"I probably couldn't do it if you were wearing armor," she said around a yawn. She sat up a little straighter and scrubbed the sleep from her eyes.

Resigned to being dangled in the air, he folded his arms over his chest. "I'm very happy for you," he said, in a tone that strained at diplomacy. "Would you mind putting me down?"

Smiling, she let go. He landed with a little grumble.

"It does," she agreed, closing the book she'd nearly fallen asleep on. Rather than craning her neck to meet his eyeline, she got to her feet and rested her weight against the table. "Take more than a few weeks, I mean. I won't be truly proficient for some time. It's...different...than what my father taught me. Different than anything I've ever tried. But in the meantime, I'm not useless."

"I know," Alistair said. "That's why I need you to go to sleep—in a  _bed_ , mind you. I need you in the Deep Roads tomorrow."

For a moment—just a single, paralyzing moment—it felt as though her stomach had turned to stone. She had not been in the Deep Roads since leaving Jader; it had been nearly a month. She knew it could not continue, but…

"All right," she agreed, clasping her hands together behind her back so they wouldn't give away her fear. "I'll be off, then."

He was giving her a peculiar look, and he was between her and the door, which didn't allow her to escape. "You don't like it down there much," he observed.

"I can't imagine anyone who does," she replied, which was at least  _honest_.

"Still. Some of us don't like the smell, or the lack of sunlight, or the massive stone towering above of us, but—that's nothing like almost dying down there."

Her throat constricted. The library was suddenly far too warm, despite the lack of a fire. "That was a past life," she said, her voice thin. "Besides—other Wardens almost die every day. They're fine."

He snorted. "Who are referring to?"

"Surely you've all had near-death encounters—"

"No, I mean, who among us do you think is  _fine_?"

Her brow furrowed. "You seem remarkably well-adjusted."

"I've had time, but we all get the nightmares. We endure. It is not the same as  _fine_." He snorted, as though the thought was laughable. "To my original point, however—not everyone among us drank under duress. In fact, most of us here at the Vigil did not. It was a choice. You did not choose. It is another thing to be forced into this life."

"It was this, or…" She trailed off, unable to articulate it.

"Yes, I've seen it." He leaned against the table beside her, fingers curling around the edge. "Some survive years with the corruption. Others die swiftly. Given how your Joining went, I expect that you would have been the former."

She drew a breath, then another, until the haze of that memory lifted from her mind. "I hate the darkspawn," she said—less to him, and more to herself. "After what they've done to me, I—I enjoy killing them. I don't like it. It feels...wrong. Twisted. I killed them before out of necessity—to flee the Blight—not because I liked it."

"Mastering the corruption brings out the darkness in us all." This sounded like an old lesson; his eyes were unfocused, his mouth twisted down. "It is our sacrifice, so that others do not have to make it. We live a grim life. If there is some pleasure to be found in it, no matter how foreign, we should not begrudge ourselves. Killing darkspawn is, in the end, a good thing."

She sighed, ruffling her hair back from her face. "I know it's my life now. I should just accept—"

"That's not what I'm saying at all." To her surprise, he covered her hand with his, prompting her to look up at him. The callouses on his palm and fingers were rough against the back of her hand, but she found that she didn't mind. "You need time. Everyone does. To find balance—your place here. I only meant that we bear a terrible burden, and it  _is_  terrible. You're not wrong. Eventually, though...it gets easier." He smiled. "Just something to look forward to."

He looked excessively handsome when he smiled, she decided. It seemed unfair, really, especially when he turned the weight of that charm on her. She wasn't sure, at all, of what to say, so she simply said, "Thank you, Alistair."

At this, his smile went crooked—more of a smirk, and even more unfair. "I knew you could do it," he said, squeezing her hand.

She dared to roll her eyes. It didn't seem like he would mind.


	7. Chapter 7

The ogre roared.

They didn't have the strength for this. Bethany did not feel comfortably protected by warriors, like she had at Jader. Their numbers were significantly less at the Vigil, and only four Wardens had accompanied Alistair and Bethany into the Deep Roads.

It was a pitiful number, no matter how impressive their skills.

Alistair was busy with an emissary, Sigrun with a group of genlocks, Nathaniel with the closing hurlocks. The ogre would have to fall to Bethany.

It roared again, pivoting to go after Alistair. She took a deep breath, reached out, and  _pulled_.

It fell much in the way she imagined that a mountain might fall, though with a great deal more noise. Once it was down, she threw a fireball and followed it up with bolt after bolt of arcane energy. The thing staggered as it got its feet beneath it, but its eyes swiveled until they rested on her.

She didn't let it take another step. Digging into the well of her magic, she froze the ogre solid. Sigrun appeared only seconds later—the genlocks felled, one and all—to shatter it into thousands of glittering pieces.

From the other side of the field, Alistair laughed, a distinct note of relief in his voice. Sigrun joined in. Nathaniel, for his part, merely looked at Bethany askance, brow deeply furrowed. She shouldered her staff and looked away, surprised to find that not one of them had fallen, not even the two newest recruits.

"Broodmother ahead," Alistair called. "Stay sharp."

* * *

The Deep Roads were not good for sleeping. Bethany loathed every minute she was not on watch, pretending to doze in her tent instead. Trying to get comfortable on the hard ground was an impossibility after weeks in that bed at the Vigil. She tossed and turned and, when she got truly bored, she watched Nathaniel and Alistair's shadows against the wall of her tent, backlit by their small fire.

"So the rumors from Jader were true," Nathaniel said, breaking a long silence. He kept his voice low.

"Rumors?" Alistair sounded as if he was only half-listening—one ear on the darkspawn, undoubtedly, listening for a patrol straying too close to their camp.

"About her."

When he replied, Alistair's voice had sharpened. "What about her?"

"She attracts the darkspawn. These paths were supposed to be clear."

Bethany didn't dare move—hardly dared breathe. She listened, straining for every word, and wished she was smart enough to put her hands over her ears.

"I've never heard of such a thing. We all attract the darkspawn, one way or another."

"You heard what they called her?" Bethany couldn't identify the inflection in Nathaniel's voice; he was mystery enough when his face was in view, with that perpetual narrow glare.

"Orlesians are superstitious."

"You're saying there's no precedent?"

"I'm saying that if there  _is_  one, I haven't heard of it."

Alistair's voice contained a warning now, a hint of disapproval creeping in. It came as a comfort to Bethany, who slowly sank deeper into her bedroll, relaxing with every second that the silence went on.

"Perhaps we ought to look into it," Nathaniel suggested, all the ire gone from his tone. "That's all I'm saying."

Alistair's shadow dipped his head, as though in acquiescence, and Bethany rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut. Her stomach churned. Their conversation did not resume, but it was a long time before she fell asleep.

* * *

Bethany had only been back at the Vigil for one night before Velanna dragged her to the practice yard to spar. After one round, though—ending with Bethany on her arse in the dirt—Velanna stopped their training.

"That staff won't do anymore," she said, squinting.

Bethany pulled herself to her feet, using her weathered staff for support, and frowned at Velanna. "What do you mean?"

"Look." Velanna shouldered her own staff and traced her fingers along the grains of Bethany's. There were cracks in the wood, almost too faint to see. "You have outgrown it."

Bethany sighed, touching the cracks for herself. "I suppose I'll visit Wade. He should have something for me."

Velanna was already shaking her head. "No, no, no. It is past time you made your own. It will serve you far better than any store-bought trinket."

Bethany laughed. "I don't know the first thing about making a staff. Not a good one, anyway."

"Do they teach you nothing?" Velanna grumbled, though it wasn't clear who  _they_  was. "Come. We've enough light to make it to the Wending Wood tonight. The best materials—even Voldrik says so. Not that he knows anything about  _wood_." She snorted.

Bethany nodded along, as though she understood. "Right. Erm, should we set off, then?"

"Where to?" Alistair called from the entrance to the practice yards.

"Our force mage needs a new staff," Velanna replied, barely raising her voice. Alistair had to walk closer to hear; Bethany suspected Velanna did it on purpose and had to bite her lip on a chuckle. "I'm taking her to the Wending Wood to find the materials."

Alistair stopped short, a certain wariness kindling in his eyes as he glanced from Velanna to Bethany. "The wood with the possessed trees," he said slowly.

Velanna waved this off.

"Right. Well, I'd like a brisk walk, too. I'll join you."

Bethany raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't think we can handle ourselves, Commander?"

"No, no, I've no doubt of that."

"Just avoiding your paperwork, then."

"Not...avoiding. Putting off, perhaps. I do love possessed trees. They are...delightful." He tried to turn his grimace into a smile without much success.

"The day is burning. If you are coming, then let us go." Velanna strode for the gate without so much as a backward glance.

"We'd be faster on horseback!" Alistair shouted after her.

" _No!_ "

Alistair sighed and turned to Bethany. "I strongly suspect she is using you as an excuse to sleep among the trees and the worms."

"I don't blame her." 

"I do." Alistair wrinkled his nose. Alistair gestured after Velanna, and Bethany fell in beside him. "Camping will never be the same after the Blight. Ugh. I can still smell the mud."

Bethany leaned a bit closer and sniffed. "I can, too, actually."

He reached over and ruffled her hair, mussing her braid. "Maker, you're cruel. I  _bathed_  this morning, I'll have you know."

"Must be something about Fereldans," Bethany said, giving him her most innocent smile. "Like wet dog and mud."

"I wouldn't be the only one stinking, then—"

"I'm sorry, I should have been clearer. I meant Fereldan  _men_. My brother always stank, too."

Ahead of them, Nathaniel waved to Velanna from the battlements. She squinted back. It might as well have been a wave.

"I didn't know you have a brother," Alistair commented, still smiling.

Bethany tried to keep hers, but it fell away. "Had," she corrected. "He was my twin. He died when my family fled the Blight."

Alistair's smile fell away, too. "I'm sorry."

"It is what it is. We all lost someone that year, it seems."

At this, Alistair's frown deepened. "We did," he agreed, and left it at that.

* * *

"I've seen a lot of things in my life," Bethany shouted from where the tree had trapped her within its roots, "but I have never seen _walking_  trees!"

The tree roared not far from her. Its voice was deafening, though as far as she could tell, it only had a mouth dripping with sap, not teeth or tongue. Alistair cut through the roots with a sixth hack of his sword, and Bethany threw a fireball at the tree's center. Its branches caught and burned.

"Remind me to take you to the Brecilian Forest sometime," Alistair panted, turning to check on Velanna. "There's one that rhymes."

"Bethany!" Velanna shouted, and Bethany ran, brushing past Alistair to get behind the tree that Velanna had distracted. "This is the one!"

Bethany pulled, tightening threads of force magic around the thing's branches. Its bark creaked; the maw of its mouth groaned in confusion. She pulled it toward her, struggling with every inch. It was nearly within her grasp—if she could only hold on—

A leaf brushed her outstretched hand; she took hold of the branch and drove the rest of her mana at the joint where it met the tree. It came free with a loud  _crack_. The tree roared its disapproval.

"Run!" Velanna shouted, already sprinting past. Bethany, the branch clutched victoriously in hand, followed. Alistair bellowed in the tree's direction to keep it stunned while they escaped.

When they were at last out of earshot of the thing's angry roars, Bethany collapsed to the grass. Velanna did so with marginally more dignity.

"Is that enough?" Alistair rasped, yanking off his helm.

"Should be," Velanna said, eyeing the branch.

"Oh no," Bethany gasped, stumbling back to her feet. She abandoned the branch. "Commander—your face."

He winced, touching a blistered cheek with one gauntleted finger. "That fire of yours is quite powerful."

She swatted his hand away and replaced it with hers, reaching for the dwindling pool of her mana. "I'll fix it," she promised. "I'm so sorry."

With the good half of his face, he smiled down at her. "Don't be. I got in the way."

Bethany's hand glowed green; as soon as she put her palm to his cheek, he let out a relieved sigh. The burn healed quickly, and when she pulled her hand back, all signs of any wound had vanished.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, twisting her fingers together. "Maker, it's been so long since I've hit an  _ally_  on accident—"

"So you do it on purpose sometimes?"

"No!"

"I'm  _joking._ " He took her hands in his, pulling her worried fingers apart. "Look, I'm good as new. You've got your branch, we weren't murdered by trees—it's a good day."

She looked down at her hands, carefully cradled in his gauntlets. "Better than the Deep Roads," she acknowledged.

When she dared to look up at him again, his eyes had softened. His grin wasn't as broad as it had been before—just the smallest of smiles.

"What?" she asked, uncertain of what else to say. They'd left the possessed trees behind, but her heart had suddenly risen to her throat.

"I was just thinking—well, just about anything is better than the Deep Roads, but I  _particularly_  like this wood."

She was just opening her mouth to ask  _Why?_  when there was a loud clatter just behind her.

She pulled her hands from Alistair's and turned to find Velanna kindling a fire. "We've lost daylight," she said. Bethany hadn't noticed the sun set. "Unless you'd like to walk back in the dark, we'll have to camp."

Beside her, Alistair let out a low groan. Bethany gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat before pulling her pack from her shoulders. Camping or no camping, an open sky was better than the Deep Roads.

She glanced back at Alistair, who was still watching her, crooked smile still in place. The company wasn't bad, either.


	8. Chapter 8

The heartwood staff felt familiar beneath her fingers—warm, like the birch she'd once owned in another life.

"That's the result, when you make it yourself," Velanna told her. It had been the work of weeks to shape the thing, and Bethany was exhausted but pleased with the outcome. She almost looked forward to her next outing to the Deep Roads.

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied, giving it an experimental twirl. "Thank you."

Velanna grunted, which was as close as she ever came to manners, and waved her off. Relieved, Bethany wandered into the Vigil, trying hard to keep from stumbling. Sleep had been scant the past few weeks, and it was catching up with her now, though the sun was still well above the horizon. She wasn't needed until the next day, as far as she remembered—more repairs on the curtain wall—and she planned to sleep until then.

Her body had other plans. A grumbling stomach woke her in the middle of the night; ravenous, she yanked on leggings and boots as she staggered toward her door, pulling a tunic over her head at the last minute. There was no one to see her hurry, so she jogged the path to the larder, darting between the moonlight streaming in through the Vigil's windows. She'd reached the door to the kitchen before she realized how remarkably  _content_  she felt: sleepy but sated, bone-tired but at ease. It had been ages since she’d felt anything like  _peace_.

There was someone already inside, gnawing absently on a hunk of bread while his eyes scanned the open book before him: Alistair.

"Shouldn't you be done with the growing pains by now?" she teased.

He glanced up. Perhaps it was just the candle he'd brought with him to read by, but his features seemed particularly warm just now. They hadn't seen much of one another since she'd begun work on her new staff, she realized.

"Men never are, I'm afraid," he replied as she assembled a plate for herself and sat down across from him. "Is it finished, then? I saw you staggering off to your room before the sun even went down."

"It's done," she confirmed, a bit sheepishly. "I have a new appreciation for blacksmiths and woodworkers. It was a lot of effort."

"Worth it, though, I suppose."

"Worth it," she agreed. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Bit of research, actually," he replied, closing the book. "Not that it's done me any good. Wardens are blasted secretive creatures."

She chuckled around a mouthful of bread. "You say that like it doesn't surprise you."

"It doesn't. No matter what rank I've been, I've never known all there is to know about our order. I think those secrets stay in Weisshaupt." He frowned. "Useless. I'd like to know what they're doing up there besides getting fat." She snickered again, and his frown curved up, expression lightening again. "You're in a pleasant mood tonight."

"I am," she agreed, once she'd swallowed the bread. "I don't know what it is, but I feel...better. About all this. Transferring to the Vigil has helped. I like it here."

"And glad I am to hear it," he said. "We like you here, too."

For a moment, she considered voicing her lingering doubts—confessing to eavesdropping on his conversation with Nathaniel, or reminding him of the dreaded nickname he'd greeted her with in Orlais—but she decided against it, smiling and returning to her meal.

"As loathe as I am to potentially ruin the mood," Alistair said, after a few moments, "a letter came for you, about a week ago."

She glanced up; he tugged the letter from between the covers of his book and placed it gently on the table before her. She recognized Marian's handwriting instantly. It was little better than a scrawl, the paper indented where the nib of the pen had dug in.

"Oh," she said, her lips gone strangely numb.

In the last few weeks, she'd forgotten her sister, she realized. She'd lost herself in her work and finally let go of the lingering resentment she felt at being left in the hands of a stranger in the Deep Roads—but now it all came rushing back, threatening to swallow her whole.

"Not good news, I take it," Alistair said.

"It's not news at all," Bethany said, picking at the last crumbs on her plate. "It's just my sister, trying to work out if I lived or not."

Surprise—but not chastisement—colored his tone when he spoke next. "She doesn't know? Your Joining must have been, what—nearly a year ago, now. Are you not on good terms?"

She laughed, a little hopelessly, and dropped her face to her hands. "We  _were_ ," she told the table. "And then that  _stupid_  expedition, and getting trapped in the Deep Roads, and here I am."

She could feel him looking at her, assessing what to say. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked eventually. "Might help to get the whole story out."

"I'm not very good at telling stories."

"That makes two of us. I won't critique your narrative skills, if that's what you're worried about."

She let out a watery laugh, swiping at her eyes. "You remind me of her sometimes, you know. She always had a joke to make things better, and then she...didn't. Can't joke away the damned Blight."

"Maker knows I've tried," Alistair agreed. "I'll make tea."

She talked until her voice grew hoarse. She told him the story as she'd told no one else: the year spent protected by but indentured to smugglers; nearly starving the entire time; fearing templars, fearing nobles, fearing everyone; the desperation that drove them to sign onto Bartrand's expedition; her foolish insistence that she accompany Marian to the Deep Roads against her mother's wishes.

"I said, 'At least I'm allowed to _fight_ the darkspawn,'" she groaned. "Maker. I don't think Marian would have taken me if I hadn't said that. She got this awful look on her face and wouldn't hear another word Mother said. I'm sure Mother blames her for what happened to me. Just like she blamed her for Carver."

"People say things they don't mean, when they're grieving."

"It doesn't matter. Whether they mean it or not, it hurts the same."

He sighed. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"But Marian's fine, as far as she's ever fine," Bethany said, touching the envelope that still lay, unopened, on the table. "We found enough in that wretched thaig to buy back the estate. She's a noble now—doesn't even have to worry about hiding her apostate sister anymore."

"It doesn't sound as if she ever shirked that duty," Alistair commented.

"But she should have!" Bethany burst out. "Her whole life has been about taking care of me, hiding me, sacrificing  _everything_  for me, and now that she's finally free of me she still won't let go!"

The silence following her heated words seemed to ring with them; coupled with the expression on Alistair's face, she thought she'd like to sink into the stone and disappear. It wasn't horror, not exactly, but something close.

"I don't think anyone would be the better for your leaving their life," he said at last, very gently.

She buried her face in her hands. "She is," she said. There was a catch in her throat, the indication that she was about to cry, and she desperately didn't want to. "She is, and I  _resent_  her for it. I hate that she left me in the Deep Roads. I hate that she's better off without me. I miss her so much, and I hate her so much, too. How does  _that_  make any sense? What kind of sister am I?"

The bench scraped across stone. Briefly, she thought that he was about to leave—she'd half-prefer it, really—but instead, he came around the table and sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. He was fireside-warm, and she felt so very, very cold.

"I've no idea," he said frankly. "But I know what kind of  _person_  you are."

She stilled, just a bit—listening, even if she dreaded what she'd hear.

"Determined. Kind. Skilled. You didn't ask for this, but you've worked yourself to death helping us. You hate the Deep Roads, but you never shirk your duty. Even when Velanna's beaten you bloody in the practice yard, you still agree to spar with her." He tugged at her wrist, pulling one hand away from her face and closing it within his own. "You're an extraordinary woman, Bethany. But you're also human, just like the rest of us. It's going to take time to heal. And if your sister's anything like you say she is, she understands."

She sniffed, and that was all it took to unlock whatever awful knot resided in her chest; she was crying—sobbing, really—before she knew it, desperately trying to reign herself in, but Alistair didn't tell her to stop. He draped an arm around her shoulders, warm and heavy, and she leaned into the comfort without thinking about it, twisting her body closer to his.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, her voice thick. She pulled back, but his arm stayed comfortably around her shoulders while he dug a handkerchief from his pocket with his free hand. "That wasn't very proper of me."

He pressed the handkerchief into her hand; she dabbed at her eyes, avoiding his gaze. Hard to do, close as they were. Humiliated as she felt, it was also...nice.

"I'm bad at proper," he said, his voice warm with the jest. "If you want to know a secret, that's exactly why they didn't make me king."

She snorted into the handkerchief.

" _And_  because people would react just like that. Quite right."

She peeked up from the handkerchief. "You're not serious."

He grimaced. "There's a reason I don't go flashing my surname around. I was surprised you didn't say anything when we met, to be honest, but I suppose anyone living in the Free Marches only got the bare bones version of what happened during the Blight, especially someone with the year you had."

For a moment, she wondered what in Andraste's name she was doing, sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the night trading life stories with her Commander, the would-have-been King of Ferelden—Maker's  _balls_ , Varric would say if he knew—but in the end, she found her voice, anyway.

"Perhaps you should educate me, then," she offered. "My voice was getting tired, anyway."

Her stomach twisted itself up in knots at his relieved smile.


	9. Chapter 9

She woke in the middle of the night, sweating.

For once, it wasn't a dream of darkspawn that roused her. It was the first pleasant dream she'd had since her Joining, and it was about _Alistair._

Bethany shuddered, rolled over, buried her face in her pillow, and held her breath. The ache between her thighs hadn't ebbed away by the time she counted to thirty, and she rolled onto her back again, considering the merit of taking a cold bath.

This wasn't an appropriate dream to entertain. He was her Commander—no matter how friendly he was, no matter how well they got along, no matter how her stomach twisted when he smiled at her, nothing like  _that_  could ever happen between them…could it? No, of course not. There had to be regulations against fraternization. 

And even if there weren’t—why would  _Alistair_ , veteran of the Fifth Blight, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, want anything to do with her? They were friendly, certainly, but that wasn’t romance, or—or sex.

...But there was no harm in fantasy, was there?

She wasn't experienced in this sort of thing, but she was educated. Isabela had seen to that during her time in Kirkwall. She was still _embarrassed_ , of course, but at least she was knowledgeably embarrassed. That was something.

She wriggled her smalls down her legs until they were hooked around her ankles. She didn't remove her tunic; if there was an alarm, middle of the night or not, she needed to respond quickly. The sheets scratched at her bare legs, and for a moment, she felt too silly to proceed—but then she remembered the dream: Alistair's weight pressing her to the mattress, Alistair's hands wrapped around her hips, Alistair buried in her—

Her own fingers ghosted over her stomach, but she imagined they were his. When she let her legs fall apart, she imagined it was his hands pulling her open. When her fingers slid into her own wetness, she imagined his mouth, his tongue, instead. She bit her lip on a gasp, then a moan, and with every circling of her fingers around her swollen clit she imagined him instead, smirking up at her from between her spread legs—

With a gasp, she came, her back arching against her bed. The sound of her own breath echoed back at her from the stone walls as she slowly unwound, sinking into the mattress with boneless relief. Before she could think too deeply about any of it, she pulled her smalls back up her legs and rolled over, closing her eyes.

Sleep returned quickly. For once, she dreamed of nothing at all.

* * *

As luck would have it, she didn't see Alistair the next day.

He'd taken Nathaniel and ridden for Denerim—without her—well before dawn. “Another attempt to recruit,” Velanna said with a dismissive wave when they met for their morning sparring match.

She was, more or less, relieved. She didn't think she could look him in the face after the night she'd had—and besides, she had work on the east wall to finish with Voldrik.

“Ready, Warden Hawke?” he called from the ramparts.

For a moment, her sister's face filled her mind's eye, smirk ever in place. She wondered if Marian had gotten everyone to stop calling her  _Hawke_  yet, or if now that Bethany was gone, she'd given up.

“Ready,” she shouted back, brandishing her staff. “Just tell me where to put it!” 

She heaved the first lump of granite from the ground, already sweating, and moved it slowly to where Voldrik directed.

It was backbreaking work, truly. A day of moving stone left her achier than a week of fighting—but she enjoyed it, particularly when Voldrik came down from the battlements when the sun set and his moustache twitched at the sight of the improved wall, hiding his smile.

They were hard at work on the south wall by the time Alistair and Nathaniel returned a week later. Bethany barely heard the horns sounding their arrival; she was sweating over this section, straining deep to make the force magic she'd been studying work on such terrible damage. The wall had been deeply cracked; they’d had to remove granite before replacing it, and it was slow going.

“Just a little more left,” Voldrik called down, hurriedly smoothing down mortar in the gap between the stone she held and the stone already in place. “A little more—”

She pushed, and the stone slid in, forming a smooth wall where there had once been a pitted surface. Panting, she pushed her hair back from her face and grasped at her tunic, using it to fan the overheated skin beneath—even at sundown near the coast, the chill air didn't reach her sweating body fast enough.

A low whistle sounded behind her, and she turned, leaning on her staff, to find Alistair and Nathaniel on horseback, eyeing the wall with incredulity.

“Maker,” Alistair muttered, grinning. She'd never seen Nathaniel so flabbergasted; his mouth was just slightly open. “ _That_  never fails to be bloody impressive. Place hardly looks like it took a siege last year.”

Still trying to catch her breath, Bethany nodded. At least any heat in her face was disguised by her overall exertion. “East wall’s done,” she offered. “But there’s plenty more to repair, Commander.”

He smiled down at her. “Always with the to-do lists.”

She shrugged. “It will get done. Someday. Any luck in Denerim?”

“A few recruits. We've got decent numbers if they all make it—about even with our strength before Ostagar.” A shadow crossed his face and just as quickly fled; she offered up a sympathetic smile.

“Was a good day when the Commander brought you here.” Voldrik had climbed down from the battlements while they spoke. “Never met a harder-working human—including you,” he directed up at Alistair, who dramatically pressed a hand to his breastplate.

“That wounds me, ser dwarf, but I'm glad to hear you approve of our mage.” Voldrik grumbled and made off. “Why don't you join us for a drink?” Alistair asked Bethany. “You look like you could use a break.”

She nodded, picking up her discarded mail from a nearby stone. “Let me change into something less...sweaty...and I'll be right there.”

His eyes fell from her face, taking in the shirt that clung to her torso. Perhaps she was imagining it—she was  _sure_  she was imagining it—but his expression shifted toward something...else. Considering, perhaps, or admiring? The blood rushed to her cheeks at the very idea.

The appraisal was short, but when his eyes returned to her face, his voice had lowered. “Picked up some good stuff in Denerim,” he said, with a quirk of his lips. “They'll be all over it. Don't take too long.”

He and Nathaniel rode for the stables; she took the stairs to her room as quickly as her aching muscles allowed, using the pain to keep her mind off that  _look_. Surely he'd just been distracted, and hadn't really been looking at her. She was nothing to look at, was she?

 _Oh, sweetness, so modest._  She remembered that conversation with Isabela well enough. No woman could be self-deprecating within the pirate’s earshot and expect to escape unscathed.  _You have assets. Those doe eyes, that **figure** —_

 _Isabela!_  Marian had cut in, and Isabela had laughed as if the indignant tone didn't reprimand her at all.

Maker, she missed Kirkwall sometimes. She missed drinking at the Hanged Man, and Varric's stories, and Isabela taking care of her when she drank too much, and the card games that everyone lost coin at (but only to each other, so it was all right), and her sister—she missed them all, but she realized, with a start, that it had been some time since she  _thought_  about missing them with any regularity.

It had been some time since they'd all parted ways, too. Perhaps that wound was healing.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Changing in the cold air of her room drove all thought of Kirkwall from her mind; shivering, she quickly scrubbed down her sweaty skin with a damp cloth and pulled on a fresh breastband and tunic, long-sleeved to keep the cool of the Vigil at bay. By the time she re-braided her hair and made her way to the mess, the meal was already underway. She found a seat with Velanna and Sigrun, who pushed a plate across to her and filled up her mug with wine, respectively.

“Surfacers have the  _best_  drinks,” Sigrun sighed.

Velanna  _harrumphed_ , sipping at her wine. “It’s all right.”

“I went all the way to Denerim for that.” Nathaniel dropped into the seat beside Velanna, one eyebrow raised at her. “Does nothing impress you, my lady?”

Velanna sneered, but to Bethany’s complete astonishment, the tips of her ears turned red. “Certainly not these poorly-fermented grapes,” she said. “And not those recruits, either. No mages, I suppose?”

The bench beneath Bethany dipped; when she glanced to her left, Alistair had joined them. “They don’t exactly grow in the wild,” he pointed out. “Rather, if they do, they’re not clamoring to show themselves to us—and the Circle still doesn’t have strength enough to offer. I’m afraid it’s just you and Bethany.”

Velanna sniffed, but offered no snide comment, which was very nearly a compliment. Bethany took it as such, grinning, and took a deep drink of her wine—which was, in fact, very good. Across the hall, Oghren was leading the new recruits in some bawdy song that had them all confused, judging by the missed syllables and baffled looks.

“Voldrik’s said there’s still a steady supply of granite from the Wending Wood,” Bethany said, cutting into a potato. “I think we ought to add a few watch towers on the walls—those we’ve got were too badly damaged in the siege to repair.”

Alistair nudged her shoulder with his. “It’s a good idea, but has anyone ever told you that you work too much, Warden?”

Sigrun laughed. “She makes us all look bad, Commander.”

Even Nathaniel was smiling, so Bethany relented, raising her mug. “Fine, fine. No working for this evening, then, all right?”

“Cheers!” her brothers and sisters chorused, drink sloshing from their glasses when they clanged together.

“Believe it or not, I know a few games, too.” Bethany took another gulp of her drink. “Does anyone have cards? We should play Wicked Grace.”

Velanna let out a low groan, but Nathaniel immediately dug a pack of cards from his pocket. “I hate this game,” she said while he shuffled.

“She’s sore because she lost last time,” he elaborated, and though she glared, all he did in return was smirk.

It wasn’t Kirkwall, but they  _were_  her friends—and the drink flowed late into the night, and she laughed harder than she had in a year, and Alistair’s shoulder stayed pressed against hers like protection from the chill. By the time the midnight toll sounded, the recruits were passed out across the hall, Sigrun was sleeping against her folded arms, Oghren was singing some tune under his breath, and Velanna was snoring quietly against Nathaniel’s shoulder.

“Ha!” Alistair announced, laying down his cards. None of the Wardens around them so much as twitched from their slumbers. “I think I have this hand.”

Bethany drained her mug, grimacing, and laid down her cards, too. “Pssh.  _Fine_. We played for rather higher stakes in Kirkwall, you know. People lost their smallclothes. There’s no motivation when it’s just coin.”

Alistair chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She stood, swinging a leg over the bench, and steadied herself against the table. She’d felt just fine while sitting down, but now that she was  _up_ , her muscles were like water. “I’m going to turn in.”

“I’ll walk you.” His smile had turned into a smirk. “You look like you could use the extra balance.”

“I’m  _fine_.” She huffed, pushing away from the table, and managed to keep her footing. “But if it makes you feel better, go ahead, walk with me.”

He followed alongside her up the stairs, but to his credit, he didn’t attempt to steady her, and to  _her_  credit, she didn’t need much steadying after she got underway.

“How are you so…” She flapped a hand at him. 

“So what?” He was grinning again. “Devastatingly handsome?”

She snorted. “Funny.”

“So I’m  _not_? That’s dreadful.”

“Shush. You know your own assets. I’m certainly not going to stroke your ego.”

He snorted, too.

“I saw you drinking,” she said, a little louder now, to get the conversation back on track. She thought her ears were burning, but that might just have been the wine. “Yet there you are, all upright and not babbling at all.”

“It’s the muscle mass. I’d have to drink a  _lot_  to get like you are.”

“I’m not  _like_  anything!”

They were outside her door, and he was chortling, eyes crinkled at the corners. “So indignant! It wasn’t an insult. It’s good to see you relax.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Well…that’s all right then. I suppose.”

She was suddenly aware that they were standing far too close to each other; her head was tipped back to meet his eyes, his chin tipped down to look into her face. Her cheeks were burning now, too. Maker. She’d drunk too much. Had she really referenced the smallclothes incident not five minutes ago?

“Even if it is at the expense of my ego,” he added. This close, she could see the pretty flecks of golden-brown in his eyes, like wheat catching the light of a sunset. Varric would have said it better, but they were nice. Nice eyes.

“Are you still going on about that? If I tell you I think you’re handsome, would you feel better?” The words were too brash, past her lips before she could rethink them. She was Marian’s sister after all; it was exactly the sort of thing she would say in this situation.

When he next spoke, his voice had lowered. It seemed like it slid right down into her chest to discharge sparks into her heart—an organ whose racing she was suddenly too aware of, loud and harried against her breastbone.

“Only if you’re telling the truth,” he said. She wasn’t sure when her back had pressed up against her door, or when her arms had fallen to her sides, or when the space between them had been swallowed up—but she could pick out a thin scar just over his temple that she’d never noticed before.

“Have you ever known me to lie?” she asked, and didn’t recognize her own voice—so quiet and breathless that he might not have heard her but for how close he was.

“I don’t suppose I have,” he murmured.

He leaned in, and for a wild moment, she thought he was going to kiss her—but then the doorknob clicked and he was holding the door open just a sliver, waiting for her to straighten up and duck inside.

“Sweet dreams,” he said, his smile a little crooked, and stepped back.

“Good night,” she replied, heart still beating too fast, and took the opportunity to escape, slipping inside and shutting the door. She leaned back against it, listening as his footsteps receded, trying to breathe steadily and failing.

All thoughts of regulations against fraternization gone from her head, she stumbled out of her clothes and collapsed in bed, fingers sliding between her thighs as soon as the sheets had covered her.


	10. Chapter 10

“When we get back to the surface, I'm taking a hot bath, long walk to fetch the water be damned!”

From twenty paces ahead of her, Alistair laughed; his blade swept clean through the neck of an attacking hurlock. Bethany's stomach didn't even twitch at the little gurgle of blood. She cast an Abyss on Alistair's flank, tumbling the darkspawn that had attempted to sneak up on him.

A few more minutes, and the clang of steel went quiet, replaced by the harried breath of everyone in the unit—except for Oghren, of course, who belched instead, swinging his axe onto his back. The dwarf never looked fazed in the slightest after a fight.

Bethany didn't return her staff to its strap. If her senses were correct, they would be meeting more of the wretched creatures soon. The onslaught had been relentless since they stepped into the Deep Roads three days ago; it had been difficult finding tunnels calm enough to camp in when they were too weary to keep moving. Alistair had voiced suspicions that another broodmother was hiding in this particular network.

“There,” she said, raising her voice and pointing to the tunnel that branched left. “Maybe half a league off.”

“A  _lot_  of them,” Nathaniel agreed, retrieving an arrow from the eye socket of a genlock.

“Well.” Alistair resettled his shield. “Hopefully that's our mark. Onward.”

For a blessed half an hour, while they marched, they met not a single darkspawn—just a corrupted giant spider, which they put down with brisk efficiency before moving on. All the while, the buzz of those creatures ahead of them grew louder in Bethany's head. She'd started to become more adept at picking out their numbers; she hazarded a guess at thirty, with one terrible mass at the far end of the chamber that had to be the broodmother.

She didn't like the odds. There were five of them, true, which was more or less a match for that many darkspawn, but it would be ugly. Funny—she was better-armored than she'd ever been in those skirmishes in Lowtown's dust, but she'd always felt safer with Marian's daggers between her and the enemy. Perhaps it had been simpler when the enemy was just a group of standard thugs.

She glanced ahead at Alistair, marching side-by-side with Oghren. She'd had little occasion to interact with the dwarf—he usually led units into the Deep Roads on his own, taking the newer inhabitants of the Vigil with him—but she knew he and Alistair had traveled together during the Blight. It showed on the rare occasion they fought together, as though they knew one another’s style well.

She could hardly believe some of the tales Alistair had told of that time. It had been a harrowing year, by all indications. It was somehow comforting to know that her indentured servitude in Kirkwall had not been the worst thing to happen in 9:30.

Sigrun nudged her in the side. “Silver for your thoughts?”

Bethany chuckled. “Just brooding. Don't mind me.”

The dwarf lowered her voice. “Did something happen between you two?”

Startled, Bethany looked down at Sigrun’s knowing grin. “What?” She cleared her throat. “No, of—of course not.”

“Funny. I could have sworn you left the hall together the other night.”

Her ears were burning again. Lovely. “We did, but—nothing happened. It's not like that. I thought you were asleep!”

“Sure.” Sigrun beamed up at her. “That's what Velanna keeps saying about Nathaniel, too, but I can just  _tell_ —”

From ahead, Alistair bellowed. The darkspawn roared back.

“By the Stone,” Sigrun muttered, and then she was gone from Bethany's side, slipping invisible through their ranks to catch the darkspawn on their flank.

Bethany stayed back, only two paces to Nathaniel's right; while she took up casting, he planted extra quivers of arrows in the ground around him. By the time she'd built up enough momentum to cast another Abyss, he was firing into the pack of darkspawn, loosing arrow after arrow with a familiar rhythm.

She swung, staff whirling, bursts of fire hitting between her heavier attacks. There was no ogre, but she could see the broodmother, wailing at the back of the cave. Alistair, Oghren, and Sigrun were slowly pressing closer to it, darkspawn falling in their wake. Bethany watched them as carefully as she watched the darkspawn; when Sigrun stumbled, palm pressed to a wound in her side, Bethany healed the injury to keep her fighting.

They had reached the broodmother now, blades hacking at the endless tentacles. Nathaniel had reached down for his second quiver. There was a prickle at the back of her skull—a creeping sensation of something wrong—

“Behind!” she shouted, whirling, just in time to see another dozen come pouring from the side of the tunnel—a branch they hadn’t stopped to examine on their way in.

There would be no stopping all of them—some would reach her and Nathaniel before the others finished with the broodmother—but she continued to cast as if she could stop them: an Abyss to tumble the frontrunners, fire to confuse them, a Fist to rattle them. 

Nathaniel picked off the weakened ones with arrows, but three of the darkspawn made it through to confront them directly. Bethany stepped back, keeping a gap between her and the hurlock she was now striking directly with her staff. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nathaniel attempting to strangle a genlock with his bow. She swung, harder this time, and knocked the hurlock to the ground; before it could rise again, she slammed her staff directly through its head. It twitched as she pulled the heartwood free, but it was down, and she was free to hit the genlock flailing at Nathaniel, felling it with a bright pop of flame—

Pain bloomed in her shoulder—hot, liquid, slow. She heard a gasp—hers; she turned, but the swing of her staff to bat away the last darkspawn was weak, easily knocked aside. Her right arm had fallen limp, useless, and the laugh that came from the creature's throat was dark, throaty with corrupted blood—

It choked before it could strike again, a sword protruding through its chest. Alistair tossed the body to the side. She couldn't get enough air; her heartbeat was loud and uneven against her ribs, and she could feel the wet trickle of blood beneath her shirt and mail and leather, slithering down her skin.

Alistair caught her before she could fall, ducking beneath her good arm. “You're all right,” he said, arm tight around her torso, holding her up. He urged her back the way they’d came, navigating carefully around the charred bodies of darkspawn. “Eyes open, come on, let’s walk. We're going to get you patched up. Sigrun—”

“Out of potions. Ancestors,” Sigrun cursed. The rattle of her digging through their supplies. “There's bandages. We'll be able to slow the bleeding until we can get to the surface—”

Bethany reached for her magic, trying to call up a healing spell, but she'd expended it in the fight. “Lyrium,” she rasped, though she knew it was a long shot; they’d had trouble getting a steady supply of lyrium to the Vigil. “If we have any lyrium potions, I’d have the strength to heal—”

“No.” Alistair’s voice was bleak. 

They were in a clear tunnel now. He helped her to the ground and propped her against the wall. Maker, the smell. Clear or not, the smell stuck, deep in her nose. She remembered it, all those long months ago beneath the Free Marches, the stink of Blight and death and dying and the poison moving in her veins—not unlike now, but it wasn't so slow anymore. 

“Hey. Eyes on me.” Her vision swam, but she tried to look at him, tried to stay awake. “Oghren, hand over your flask. You and Nathaniel, stand guard. Sigrun, help me get her armor clear.”

“Drink it slow,” Oghren cautioned. “You humans get hit hard by the dwarven stuff.”

“Because it tastes like piss,” Nathaniel muttered.

Sigrun peeled her armor away from the wound, ripping wide the hole the darkspawn had made, and it _hurt_ , Maker, it hurt, felt like it had gone right through her—

“You're doing fine,” Sigrun said, her voice soothing and low. Pressure on the wound now, hands and cloth pressed tight to the tear in her skin, sopping up blood and cleaning the area. Water, cool, dripping down. “Don't let her bite too hard—”

Alistair's palm pressed to her cheek, loosening the hold of her teeth on her bottom lip. There was blood in her mouth—she tasted it, metallic and clean,  _hers_  even after all the Blight had done to her. 

“It's okay,” he told her, and she struggled to focus on him, whimper choking its way from her throat. “You're okay. Held them off while we finished the job—you deserve a promotion.” He held a flask to her mouth, and she sputtered around the burn of too-strong alcohol, but as it slid into her belly the pain dimmed, just a little. “Yeah, I know. We'll get this patched, and then we'll get you back to the Vigil.”

“Something’s wrong,” she managed. “It doesn’t feel like it should—”

“Been stabbed much, have you?” Alistair said, trying to smile, it _hurt_ how hard he was trying with his brow still furrowed in worry—

“She’s right.” Sigrun’s voice was worried now, her touch gentle around the wound. “Must have been poison on the blade. Fleshrot, looks like—would’ve been better if it was a clean hit, damned darkspawn…”

She wound the bandage around, around and around, and when she was done with that, she made a makeshift sling, tucking Bethany’s arm into it with gentle fingers. The wound burned now, sharp pinpricks against the deeper ache of torn muscle and tendon.

“Good?” Alistair asked, and Sigrun nodded. “All right, up we go.”

Her legs were hardly steady beneath her, but Alistair's bulk at her side helped when her knees threatened to buckle. 

“Good thing we ran into so many darkspawn on the way down,” he said. “Can't be more than a day's walk from the surface.”

“Good,” Bethany managed. “I'd rather die out in the sunlight.”

He didn't laugh at the jest; they stumbled on.

* * *

She remembered little of the journey to the surface, and didn't recall re-entering the Vigil at all. When she woke in her own bed, in her sunlit room, the pain reduced to a dull throb, she could remember only flashes of what happened after that battle: Sigrun replacing her bandages, Alistair's worried face, her legs giving out from under her, the  _pain_.

“Ah,” a voice said, somewhere to her left. “Decided to come back to us, hmm?”

Slowly, she turned her head. The sunlight glinted in Velanna's hair, bright and golden; Bethany had to squint to make out her face.

“Water,” Velanna said crisply, holding a cup out to her.

With a little effort, Bethany sat up, bracing herself against the headboard. Her right arm was in a better sling, she realized, taking the weight off her shoulder. She took the cup with her left hand and drank, draining it; even then, her throat was still dry.

“Thank you,” she said.

Velanna sat back in her chair. There was a book closed in her lap; she'd clearly been waiting some time.

“You'll make a full recovery,” she said. “The fleshrot complicated matters—you’ll have a nasty scar—but your shoulder will heal. Sling stays on for a week. You won't be sparring with me again for some time.”

Bethany dared a chuckle. “Perhaps I should thank the darkspawn.”

Velanna's mouth quirked at the corner—an unusual sight, to be sure. “I would reprimand you for letting one get that close, but I've heard the story—the lot of you might have been in greater trouble if not for you.” She inclined her head. “I...thank you. I would have missed…well.” She paused, then said, simply, “It’s better that you all returned safe.”

Made speechless by this pronouncement, Bethany barely managed a nod. Velanna stood, book clasped in her hands.

“The Commander wanted to see you, when you woke,” she said, her voice brisk again. “Do you feel strong enough for company?”

Her stomach twisted. “Yes, I think.”

Velanna looked as if she might say something else, but thought better of it and departed without another word. Bethany only had to wait a few minutes, her fingers fussing with the sheets, before someone knocked on the door. She cleared her throat, swallowed to steady her nerves. 

“Come in,” she called.

Alistair brushed the door aside. She'd never seen him look quite so harried: his hair on end, the growth of a few days' stubble on his cheeks, shirt coming untucked from his trousers. He crossed the room and sat, looking at her like he didn't quite believe she was there

“I'm fine,” she reassured him, “though I'd love another glass of water if you could pour it.”

He did as she asked and handed her back the cup. It occurred to her that he hadn't said a single word yet, and she drank slowly, hoping the cup hid any nerves showing on her face.

“Velanna excused me from sparring,” she said finally, wiping her lips with her remaining hand. “Can you imagine? I said I ought to thank the darkspawn, and she actually  _smiled_.”

He took the empty cup from her hand and set it on her night table. He still looked so grave.

“I  _am_  going to be fine, aren't I?” she asked, worried now. “Velanna said I was, and I can't imagine she was lying, she’s terrible at it—”

His hand fell to where hers lay amidst the blankets, closing around it. “I'm sorry,” he interrupted. His voice was hoarse. “Of course. You'll be right as rain before we know it.”

Speechless again, she looked down at their hands.

“I'm sorry, too, for what happened,” he continued. “I wasn't expecting the darkspawn to be there in such force, broodmother or no. We will be better prepared next time.”

She remembered those whispers in Jader—bad luck, great ugly sea birds and all—and considered asking, at last, if he knew anything about what it all meant—if it was  _her_  fault that there had been so many, that they had nearly been overwhelmed—

He let out a long sigh, propping his chin in his free hand, elbow on his knee. “Forgive me. This...something this serious...hasn't happened since I took command. I feel awful, which is, of course,  _nothing_  compared to how you must be feeling. I’m being a total arse. Are you in much pain?”

She shook her head. “Twinges. A little.”

His own laugh seemed to startle him. “Some of that swill of Oghren's must still be in your system. It looked terrible.”

She shifted, a little, against the headboard. The skin and muscles and tendons pulled; with her magic restored, she could feel the healing her body was doing beneath the surface. “It's uncomfortable, mostly,” she said. “Maker, I know I'm lucky it was the right side, but I'm not ambidextrous. I'd have preferred to lose my left hand.”

He shook his head, a slow smile spreading over his features. She smiled back, suddenly aware that she must look terrible, and how long had it been since she'd cleaned her teeth—

But his hand tightened around hers, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, and it was suddenly clear that a bird could have nested in her hair and he wouldn’t have really noticed.

“If there's anything you need done, just say the word,” he offered.

She considered, a little distracted by the terrain of his hand, callouses pressed to her skin.

“I think,” she said at last, “food. Would be nice. How long have I been asleep?”

Alistair looked around, as though the answer might present itself to him. “A few days.” At her raised eyebrows, he added sheepishly, “Honestly, I haven't kept track very well.”

She considered his face: the circles under his eyes, the bloodshot in the whites.

“I thought  _I_  was the one who took the beating in the Deep Roads,” she scolded, “not you.”

“I was worried.” He ran a hand over his jaw, wincing at the rasp of stubble. “Do I look that bad? You’ve got a real glare there, you know. Would put fear in the hearts of children and grown men alike.”

She snorted, then promptly winced when the wound pulled with the motion.

“Sorry.” He frowned at her shoulder. “I suppose I should endeavor to keep the jokes to a minimum for the foreseeable future.”

“You couldn't if you tried,” she scoffed, and then, more tentatively, “I don't know. I might like the beard.”

“You think?” he asked, scrubbing at the stubble again. “It sort of itches, now that I've come to my senses.”

“You? Senses? Never.”

He chuckled, squeezed her hand once more, and got to his feet. “You know me so well. I'll return with food.”

She watched him go; he turned back just as he reached the door.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, not a trace of humor left in his words.

When he shut the door behind him, she sank down in bed, pulling the blankets up to cover her ridiculous grin. It was hardly _smart_  for someone with a serious injury to be giggling like a child, but  _Maker_ , he made her chest fill up with warmth even in the face of pain and fear.

_We live a grim life,_ he’d told her once.  _If there is some pleasure to be found in it, no matter how foreign, we should not begrudge ourselves._

She hadn’t really believed there was pleasure to be found at  _all_  in this life, but, well—she’d been wrong before, and would undoubtedly be so again.


	11. Chapter 11

She hated the sling.

It reminded her—didn't everything?—of Marian: the scar she'd come home from Ostagar with, the way her knee always popped after that awful wound, healed sloppily in the midst of a desperate battle.

It was inconvenient, too, of course. It was difficult to even get dressed without help; the injury affected a single limb, but it threw her entirely off balance. And it was terribly boring, being unable to go about her typical routine. She spent a lot of time in the library that week; when she got too restless, she walked the repaired battlements, planning mentally for the next fixes she wouldn't be able to help with again for a fortnight. Voldrik found her staring at one of the crumbling watch towers a few days after she'd woken, scowling.

"You've earned some rest," he told her, patting her good elbow. She was much too tall for him to reach her shoulder. "The wall will be there when you're back on your feet."

"I'm already back on my feet," she replied, exasperated. "Honestly, I could probably manage—"

He shook his head. "Commander's orders. Stick to your studying—you'll work better and faster when you're ready to help out again."

"Hang the Commander," she muttered, which startled a laugh out of Voldrik.

Funny. When she was younger—even in Kirkwall—she'd have given anything to have a few days of rest, but now she itched to return to the familiarity of work. Watching the others spar, wrangling her sling on the sidelines, wasn't the vacation she'd once imagined it might be.

And she could still hear the darkspawn—retreating now that the weather had cooled, barely a pinprick in the distance, but present. Sometimes she stopped dead on the battlements, listening to that prickle in her head, stomach crawling with dread that they were out there, waiting, and any units Alistair sent into the Deep Roads were missing her skills while her injury healed.

She was so fretful about it that she hardly retained any studying she did. She'd reached the point with her force magic that she could practice simple exercises without much thought; this was a terrible power to have when, in the middle of levitating a number of chess pieces and a stack of books, her mind a thousand leagues from where it ought to be, someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She startled; every last one of the objects dropped to the table with a resounding clatter, and then a few more  _thumps_  as the books toppled, for good measure.

When she looked up, eyebrows raised, Alistair at least looked a little chagrined. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't be," she sighed. "I was distracted."

He studied her face, frowning a little. "Nothing good, I take it?"

"I just...hate this." He re-stacked the books while she righted chess pieces, one by one, with the hand left to her. "It takes me twice as long to eat, getting dressed is an adventure all its own—"

She heard the beginnings of a laugh, which he covered hastily with a cough, hand going to his mouth to hide the curve of his lips.

"And try dealing with long hair when you've only one hand," she continued. "I've half a mind to cut it all off."

He settled in the chair across from hers. "The sling comes off tomorrow, and then you can start hitting things again."

"I can start hitting  _training dummies_  again," she grumbled. "With a stick. Not even my staff. And that's assuming that the shoulder checks out when Velanna examines it tomorrow. You know she's going to nitpick." She shifted her arm in its sling. "The near-death experience was fine, but the mending? Ugh."

His smile looked a little fixed. "I prefer you complaining to comatose, I'm afraid."

She remembered the look on his face on finding her awake and relatively whole and felt, suddenly, like an incredible ass. "Sorry," she muttered. "I just feel so useless."

"I somehow doubt you've ever been useless." Under the table, his knee nudged hers. "And you've done more than your share of work since arriving here. The rest of us can pick up the slack for a little while."

"I don't know," she said, trying to regain some of her good humor. "It's a lot of slack."

He laughed at that and picked up one of the chess pieces. "Fancy a game?"

"Avoiding the paperwork again, are we?"

He made a face. "Don't tell anyone.”

"Fine. I never learned how to play, though."

"I'll teach you."

"You'll teach me to  _lose_. I could swear I've seen a strategy book around here somewhere; I'll take that instead."

He pushed back from the table, rolling his eyes. "You wound me, my lady."

She looked away, though the smile that bloomed on her lips at such a title was surely visible still. "You'll endure it."

* * *

When the sling came off, she finally penned a letter to Marian.

Not a good letter, but a letter. She hoped it would give her sister reassurance, even if she didn't find the courage to write again any time soon.

She dove back into her duties. It took a long month of rehabilitation before she could pick up her staff and spar again, but it was worth it to finally be soundly trounced by Velanna in the practice yard. Another section of the curtain wall was finished, with her help. She spent nights studying increasingly complex tomes on force magic, and mornings sparring with the other Wardens. As the autumn chilled to winter, their visits to the Deep Roads grew more infrequent. Sometimes, she and Alistair walked the battlements after super, clutching hot cider in their hands in the face of the wind and snow.

She had the odd feeling, now and then, that she was being courted—that his hand on her shoulder and smile cast sideways were something more than friendship—but she could never be sure, and she wasn’t yet ready to ask. She enjoyed her time with him, and tried not to wish for anything more.

"I think the broodmothers might hibernate, actually," Alistair mused one night on one of these walks, looking out over the battlements of the finally-finished east wall. "Our patrols have seen fewer and fewer darkspawn. It seems our endless tunnel-clearing might finally be making a difference."

"Is this what Wardens do forever?" Bethany asked. There was a thin layer of snow on the ground; more was falling softly through the air. "I mean, it was a long time between Blights. Four hundred years. Just...clearing tunnels, making repairs, waiting?"

Alistair chuckled, leaning against the battlements beside her. "'In Peace, Vigilance.' Sadly, vigilance is not particularly proactive."

"Maybe that should change," Bethany said, frowning now. "What if...what if we could find the Old Gods before the darkspawn did? Kill them while they slept? What if there didn't have to be another Blight, ever again?"

He took a moment to respond, and for a moment, she feared she'd crossed some invisible line—but at last he shrugged. "It's not that the idea has never occurred to anyone before, but we don't have the manpower," he said. "Perhaps the Anderfels do, but not humble little Ferelden."

"Perhaps they should help us, then," Bethany commented.

He glanced sideways at her. "Don't hold out hope. There  _are_  other things to do—eventually, or so I'm told. We're still in the Thaw, for now."

She could not disagree with that, so they stood, sipping their cider and watching the snow fall.

"There is  _something_  to investigate," he said—rather slowly. "I wouldn't share it with the First, though. I'm not sure there's precedent. I keep hoping for news on the subject, but…"

"What is it?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

He hesitated. Sudden dread twisted in her stomach.  _Precedent._  The word reminded her of one Nathaniel had used, months ago, while she pretended to be asleep.

"I wondered if mages—Warden mages—were more likely to attract darkspawn," he said.

Despite the warmth of the drink, she was suddenly very cold indeed.

"No," she replied. "You wondered if  _I_  was more likely to attract darkspawn."

He grimaced. "Saw through me, did you."

"Surely it's just coincidence," she said, every word careful even though her heart was pounding. "There's nothing at all special about me. This hasn't happened with other mages."

"It's rare for anyone to be conscripted the way you were," he pointed out. His voice was gentle, but he may as well have crushed her. "The Blight had already found you by the time you took the Joining. It might make some difference; I don't know. I only know—"

"I'm not  _cursed_ ," she interrupted, the words too defensive by half.

"That's not what I'm saying at all," he protested.

"It certainly sounds like it!"

He blew out a frustrated breath. "There's more to it than that. I can't tell if it's just the lack of a Blight, but the darkspawn we fight when you're with us in the Deep, they're...stupider. Like they're drugged, or something. They come out in force, which is hard on us, of course, but they’re weak. The ones on the surface—hell, even in the Deep Roads during 9:30—they weren't  _smart_ , but they were fierce. These...it's like they're all sort of drunk. Your magic touches them and they become that much easier to cut down."

She hardly heard any of this; she was too angry, too afraid, to listen. "This is about those stupid rumors in Jader, isn't it," she said. "That—that  _Albatross_  nonsense. You said it, when we first met. I heard you and Nathaniel talking about it."

"Stroud mentioned it," he admitted.

"He said it didn't  _matter_. Maker, what a liar." She put her mug down on the battlements—a little harder than necessary—and folded her arms over her chest, glaring. "So...what. What now?"

"I don't know why you're upset," Alistair said, his frown deep.

Made speechless by this incredible assertion, she stared at him. He put his mug down on the battlements, too.

"What do  _you_  think an albatross is?" he asked, brow furrowed.

"A great ugly bird, as far as I can tell," she snapped.

He chuckled, but hastily cleared his throat when she didn't join in. "They're not that ugly. Only when they're young. I meant—why do you think they called you that, in Jader?"

"Because I'm bad luck," she said. Her stomach twisted. "Or they thought so, at least. Every time we went into a cleared tunnel we found darkspawn. They thought it was me."

"Ah." He looked suddenly as if he understood, which made very little sense, for she understood nothing at all. "There's been a misunderstanding."

"A  _misunder_ —"

He raised his hands, patting the air to placate her. "I thought you knew a pirate in Kirkwall? Why didn't you ask her?"

Her cheeks burned. "I didn't want to know."

"Well, I'm going to tell you anyway, because you  _need_  to know.” Before she could repeat how very much she  _didn’t_  want to know, he pressed on. “It's an old legend about a sea bird that leads a ship safely out of bad conditions. It was an albatross, you see. Came through the storm and led a whole crew back to the sunshine. And then the captain—damned fool—shoots the albatross down, and all their bad luck returns. Harrowing thing, really. The Hero of Ferelden used to quote it at me whenever I suggested she shoot us a bird for dinner." He pulled a face.

She considered this, frowning. "So an albatross," she said slowly, "is—"

"Good luck." He leaned down, just a bit, to catch her gaze. " _Good_  luck."

"I don't understand what's good about attracting darkspawn!" she cried, scowling.

"Well, the stupider bit is grand. Makes my life easier, that's for sure. Besides—we're Wardens. What would we be without darkspawn to kill? I'm not saying I  _believe_  this, mind," he added. "I'm just saying. If it turns out that it  _is_  a thing, I'm not complaining. No one at Jader was, either, believe me. They probably just didn't want to tip you off."

"So you're not...sending me away." Bethany's arms fell to her sides.

He looked a little bewildered. "Now, why in Andraste's name would I do that?"

"I don't know," she said hopelessly. "I thought I was a liability, or something, all this time—"

He laughed, warm and a little loud, and settled his hands on her shoulders.

"And I thought maybe you were just being nice," she went on, "letting me come here in spite of what they said, but that you'd gotten tired of it now—"

"No," he said, not unkindly. "I'm just nice."

“But people complained,” she insisted. “I heard Nathaniel, that night in the Deep Roads.”

“That wasn’t a complaint. It was curiosity. Besides, try to get him to say a word against you  _now_ , after you saved his neck.”

"Don't  _jest_!” She gazed up into his face, imploring. “This is the only place I've really felt I belonged since—since I left Lothering, really. I didn't want to leave."

He was serious again, all of a sudden, his warm brown eyes on hers. "I don't want you to leave, either," he murmured.

There was something in the way his voice shaped the words that slid down into her gut and warmed her from the inside out, and they were standing too close—closer than the night when she’d drunk too much—and he was  _looking_  at her, and all those nights spent wondering and trying not to wonder rose up and took hold of her, and then she was standing on her toes to kiss him, her hands fisting in his cloak.

His lips parted for hers, letting a surprised  _mmph_  into her mouth; his hands slid down to curl fingers around her hips instead of her shoulders, tugging her closer. Her arms looped around his neck without her express permission, fingers brushing his nape.

Her brain caught up with her impulsivity a moment later, and she pulled back, hurriedly reclaiming her arms. "I'm sorry," she gasped, trying to squirm out of his arms. "I don't know what came over me, I'm—"

"I'm  _not_ ," he said, his voice suddenly a great deal lower and a great deal darker, dragging not-unpleasant shivers down her spine, and then he was kissing her again, pressing her up against the battlements. Distantly, she heard their mugs—which had been balanced precariously where her backside was now—shatter on the stone below.

This kiss was deeper. Her entire body shivered in reaction when his hand tilted her head just so and his teeth nipped at her lower lip. She _wanted_ it to continue, but there were things—they had to talk first. Clinging to that thought, she pressed her hands flat to his chest, gently pushing him back. He went immediately, mouth parting from hers, but his hands stayed put.

"There have to be regulations against this," she said, too breathlessly. She made the mistake of looking at his mouth and looked just as quickly away.

"No?" he ventured, but relented at her disbelieving look. "All right, there are, but only if we 'allow it to affect our duties,' and I'm your superior, so it'd be my ass on the line, not yours. I'm fine with that. Really,” he insisted. “We're in the ass-end of Ferelden and the people who mediate that kind of thing only get involved if something goes wrong."

"That seems terribly convenient."

"We've already given the Order our lives. It'd be cruel of them to take anything else." His lips quirked. Hadn't she vowed not to look at them? "Are you complaining?"

"No!" she said—too loudly, too indignantly. He grinned. "I'm just—I don't want to cross any lines."

"Nor do I." He peered more closely at her. "Am I? Have I?"

"No," she blurted again. "Maker, I've wanted you to kiss me for  _months_ —"

He indulged her, dipping his head to cover her mouth with his. Despite the renewed vigor of the snow falling around them, she felt remarkably warm.

"Months, hmm?" he asked at last, pulling away.

She swatted at his shoulder, but the blow was without any real bite, tempered by her sheepish smile. "Don't be smug."

"Perish the thought. Is it smug to say I've wanted to kiss you for months, too? And then you beat me to it. Rude.” That stupidly charming smile again. She should have known, back in Jader, that she wouldn’t be able to resist that lure.

"I’m sorry," she said, but it was obvious by the look on his face that he didn’t believe her—and, better, he didn’t really mind.

He was leaning down to kiss her again when a voice called from below, “Commander?”

“Drat,” Bethany whispered.

Reluctantly, Alistair let her go. They both peered over the battlements, to where Nathaniel was inspecting the broken mugs.

“Yes, Nathaniel?” Alistair called back.

He looked up. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Marvelous, really.” 

Bethany kicked him in the ankle, desperately trying not to smile.

“Right,” Nathaniel said slowly, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Don’t worry about the mugs,” Alistair added cheerily, “I’ll get them.”

“Right,” Nathaniel repeated, and walked off, shaking his head.

As soon as he was out of sight, Alistair tugged her close and kissed her again—softer this time, but not quite chaste. He pulled back too soon.

“Perhaps we should continue this somewhere less public,” he suggested.

“Not your worst idea ever,” she agreed, though her heart had begun pounding somewhere in the region of her throat at the thought.

He chuckled, shaking his head, and dropped a kiss on her nose. “I do adore your jokes. Go on—I’ll get the mugs, as promised, and meet you in your quarters.”

With anticipation burning in her gut, she made for the stairs. When she paused at the top and looked back, he was watching her go, smile on his face. She shooed him toward the south stairs, grinning, and darted out of sight.


	12. Chapter 12

Once there, Bethany questioned the wisdom of returning to her room alone.

The minutes stretched while she waited for him to arrive. His absence was giving her too much time to think. She couldn’t possibly sit still; she paced instead, throwing off her gloves and cloak at her desk, heart racing. She wondered what came next, exactly—well, she knew exactly what came next, but she wondered what it  _meant_.

He was nothing like any crush she’d entertained as a child. Indeed, it made her feel like a child instead, small and insignificant in the face of her regard for him.

The door opened. She turned, and there he was, and she was out of time to panic. He shut the door behind him.

“Hi,” she said, too breathless.

He smiled—had her stomach always done that  _thing_ , flipping around, when he smiled?—and hung his cloak by the door. “Hope I wasn’t gone too long,” he said.

“No,” she reassured, and then, taking a step closer to him, “I want to be clear about something.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Right. Any minute now, she was going to get the words out. “What does this mean to you?”

He reached out to touch her cheek, thumb running over her skin. “You mean, what do  _you_  mean to me.”

“If you like,” she agreed, and though it would have been easier to look away, she blinked and went on gazing up into his face.

“Haven’t I been terribly obvious?” he asked, brow furrowing. “I thought you knew. Especially after this.” He tapped her healed shoulder. “I was a mess. Everyone who had to put up with me before you woke up wanted to kill me, I’m sure of it.”

A laugh startled from her throat. “Oh,” she said, relieved and unbearably pleased all at once.

“Did you think this was going to be a one-time thing?” His smile was crooked, teasing. “I’m afraid I don’t have it in me.”

“Nor do I.”

“Well,” he said, drawing her close with an arm looped around her waist, “that’s settled, then. You’re stuck with me.”

She had time to laugh again, just briefly, and then he was kissing her, his face cold from the winter night, but even so, she’d never felt so warm. He walked her backward until she was leaning against the bed, his body pressed tight to hers, and then he broke the kiss, hand fisting in her hair, tilting her head to the side to get at her neck. She helped, arching into his touch. The lips on her neck provoked a gasp from her—skin sensitive under his ministrations—and when did her legs get tangled up around his thighs? She could feel him, already hard against her, pressing to the core of her body with far too many clothes between them—

He encountered her tunic at the crook of her shoulder, blew out a frustrated sigh, and immediately set to relieving her of the shirt, hands sliding beneath it. She giggled, lifting her arms to help him, and then he was kissing the bare hollow of her throat, casting the shirt aside, his hands already working at the hooks on her breastband. He brushed a tender kiss to the scar on her shoulder.

Well, two could play at that game. She reached for the hem of his shirt, slipping hands beneath it. The cut of his hip rose above his trousers; she explored the line until it ended. Her fingers traced back to his stomach, muscle with a touch of softness— _paperwork_ , she thought fondly—and up his chest, taking the shirt with her as she went. He leaned up as she tugged it over his head, looking down at her with eyes half-lidded, and then he was kissing her again, hands on her waist to pull her against him.

Maker, she’d thought she’d known something of  _want_ , laying in bed and touching herself to thoughts of him, but that was nothing compared to now, having his hands on her and his body pressed to hers and his hips rocking—just slightly—into the cradle of her legs. She clung a little tighter around his neck, hoping her would repeat the motion, but he chuckled instead and withdrew, leaving her to catch herself before she fell to the bed.

He knelt on the floor to remove her boots, and she took the moment to take him in: hair standing up on end, lips shiny beneath his short beard. With her boots out of the way, he reached up for the laces on her trousers, pulling them free with sure fingers.

“Lay back,” he told her, tugging to get the trousers over her hips; she sank down to the bed and arched her back to help. Before she could sit up again, he spread her legs apart with his shoulders. With no preamble, his tongue flicked out to taste her.

She held her breath, too stunned by the answering throb of her clit to so much as moan. His next touch was an open-mouthed kiss, soft, and then his lips closed gently around the point of her clit and  _sucked_ , and she gasped a deep lungful of air, her hips bucking up to his face of their own volition. His beard scratched pleasantly at the inside of her thighs. His mouth released her, but his tongue replaced it, a broad, slow swipe.

His hands wrapped around her hips, and he tugged her a little closer to the edge of the bed. “You’re gorgeous,” he told her in a voice of utter reverence—kiss pressed wet to the inside of her thigh—and then he went back to pleasuring her, soft little licks just over the point of her clit, her hips undulating to meet his every stroke.

One hand stayed firm on her hip, but with the other, he parted her lips and searched out her opening. At first, he merely petted the wet folds surrounding it—maddening strokes to match those of his tongue—but then he gave her the tip of one finger, slowly thrust in and out to only the first knuckle. She was panting now; surely her blush stretched from her face to her chest, red with pleasure. He offered the second finger in the same way: every thrust taking him deeper into her body, but only barely.

“Alistair,” she groaned, writhing, trying to encourage him deeper. “Please—”

His fingers curled inside her just as his lips tightened again around her clit, and a choked, wordless moan passed her lips as she came, fingers tight in the mussed sheets. When she managed to open her eyes—she hadn’t realized they were closed—his tongue still lapped lazily at her; she twitched, overly sensitive, and he just moved lower, easing his fingers out of the vice of her body to replace with his tongue. She could feel the smear of her arousal when his hand closed around her thigh, hitching it higher on his shoulder; his tongue delved deeper into her folds, stroking slowly at her cunt until her grip on the sheets began to tighten again.

He pulled away. She gave a little grumble of displeasure, but propped herself up on her elbows enough to see him toeing off his boots. She sat up at that, slipping her fingers beneath the laces of his trousers to help him get them off.

He kissed her while she pulled the tie free: deep, his tongue sliding past her lips to touch hers, his hands palming her breasts, trapping her nipples between his fingers and gently pinching. She hurried the pants down his legs, and he stepped out of them. His hands slid down to beneath her thighs, pulling her to the precarious edge of the bed, and then he stilled, arms around her to hold her steady, as her fingers reached out to lightly touch his cock.

She kept her grip loose, stroking over the shaft until his breath hitched, and then his hand joined hers and he stepped closer in the bracket of her legs. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders for balance, and the length of him slid against her, warm and hard and welcome; his hands moved to her ass, adjusting the angle, and then he was spreading her open, sinking into her.

Slow, at first, the roll of his hips languid, his hands running soothingly up and down her back, his lips tracing the scar on her shoulder, and all she could do was turn her face into his neck and hold on, legs clinging around him. She was full, so wonderfully full of  _him_ , and his length dragged against every sweet spot inside her, their bodies tangled, her fingers sliding up into his hair, damp with sweat—

With a grunt, he lifted her off him, onto the bed, and followed her up. She sank back, but he shook his head, moving past her to settle against the headboard. He patted his lap; his cock curved up against his belly, slick from her arousal.

“Up you get,” he invited.

Chuckling, she rose up on her knees, swinging one leg over his thighs. His hands settled on her hips; she reached between them to guide his cock back to her. Slowly, so slowly, she took him in. His gaze was rapt on the place where their bodies joined, and when he was buried as deep as he could go he exhaled, a long gust of air against her breasts.

She rose over him; though his hands rested on her hips, he didn’t attempt to guide her pace. He leaned forward to kiss her neck, her shoulder—she felt the cut of his teeth on her skin—and she rolled her hips, bracing her hands on his shoulders, using him as leverage for her thrusts. One of his hands dropped from her hip, thumb pressing to her throbbing center. The light touch of before was gone; he stroked her firmly now, smooth circles to match her pace. She whimpered, the combined sensation of his cock filling her and his fingers playing with her driving her closer to the peak of her pleasure—

With his free hand tangled in her hair, he tugged her down to kiss her, his mouth fierce on hers, his teeth nipping at her lips. Between kisses, he murmured her name against her lips like an order, like a plea, like a prayer, and with a whimper she came unraveled, her body clenching tight around his. He let out a low, hoarse moan; she opened her eyes in time to see his face as he spilled into her, hips jerking up for one last thrust.

She took a moment to catch her breath, leaning against him, and then, with what seemed like the last of the strength left to her, she swung her leg over his and sank down to the bed beside him, a long sigh escaping her lips.

“Yeah,” he agreed, wriggling down from the headboard to get comfortable among the pillows. “Definitely not a one-time thing.”

She laughed—more a huff of air than any real sound—and let him pull her closer, her eyes falling closed. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

A year before, she’d believed her life was already over—a thing to endure, not something that would ever be enjoyed. But here she was, in a fortress full of unusual people who happened to be her friends, a place where she not only didn’t have to hide her magic but was  _appreciated_  for it, and there was a ridiculous bear of a man in her bed, covering her face with kisses until she hid beneath the pillows, laughing so hard that her stomach ached.

It was an unconventional life, but pursuing convention had never brought her satisfaction. This, though—snow falling slow outside the Vigil, Alistair’s smile flashing in the dark—this was peace, hope, joy.

The Blight had once laid her low. It seemed particularly fitting that it had somehow helped her to her feet, too.


End file.
